


Summer Crowns

by DubiousScrivener



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 64
Words: 105,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DubiousScrivener/pseuds/DubiousScrivener
Summary: “Let me tell you a secret, Ned. More than once, I have dreamed of giving up the crown. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what I was made for. The sellsword king, how the singers would love me.”Rhaegar Targaryen lives to flee across the Narrow Sea, Robert Baratheon pursues and Eddard Stark follows, for he has not fought a war across seven kingdoms to see the Silver Prince thrive where his sister perished. Deals are struck, promises made and in a moment of anger the doom of empires is wrought. The death throes of House Targaryen will be felt across the known world.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Black news had reached King’s Landing before Ned did, he found, though they had half-killed the horses on the ride back from Dorne. The Stark had gone south to bring back his sister and found only an empty tower whose name was mockery, for there had been no joy to find there. Only a bed stained red and the biting uncertainty of not knowing whether Lyanna was dead or living. The northern lordlings he had taken with him felt as bitter over it as he did, though some more for having returned with neither victory nor tall tale than for the lack of his sister. Ned was in no mood to soothe the feathers, and would not know how even if he tried. Brandon had always been the charming one, for all his wildness. The second son of Rickard Stark was better known for silences than wit, and had made his peace with that. It would not have been proper for the second son to be better loved than the first.

The grey-eyed man hesitated when entering King’s Landing, for he had parted with Robert in anger and it was no Robert who ruled in the Red Keep. Lord Jon had said there would be a coronation when the war was over, but a golden crown had been set on his foster-brother’s brow even without the ceremony. He looked a king, Ned had thought. But then Tywin Lannister and his butchers had presented the corpse of children in cloaks. It had been murder and Eddard called it such, but a man he’d thought he’d known had denied it.  _I see no babes, only dragonspawn_. Only worry over his sister’s fate had brought Ned back to King’s Landing now, that and the need to see to his brother. In the end his hesitation was for naught, for within moments of the northerners riding through the King’s Gate they were found by men of the Vale. Eddard was still wroth at his foster-brother, but he would never deny Jon Arryn if the man sent for him.

 He left his comrades in the courtyard, unhorsing as Martyn Cassel japed about the lies Lord Dustin would have to weave to make something impressive of their fruitless ride to Dorne. Servants took him to a study where Jon awaited him. The Lord of the Eyrie looked bone-weary, as if even staying in the city had drained him of years, but he rose to clutch Eddard close before inviting him to sit. Sometimes Ned wondered if it was a betrayal, to wonder if losing this father would grieve him more than the one he’d lost to the Mad King’s flames.

 “We’ve word of Rhaegar,” Jon said, expression grim. “And of your sister.”

 The Silver Prince had not been at the Trident, entrusting his host to Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower instead. The Sword of the Morning had died in the river there, where the smallfolk now called the Dawn Ford, his skull crushed by Robert’s hammer. Eddard himself had fought the White Bull on the shore and might well have died for it had Howland Reed not put a spear in his the Kingsguard’s side before Ned's sword cut through his neck.

 “He was not in Dorne,” Ned said, the words like ash in his mouth.

 He’d thought the Targaryen might have stayed at Lyanna’s side, choosing the madness he called ‘love over his throne, but that empty tower had proved him wrong.

 “He crossed the Narrow Sea on a ship given him by Leyton Hightower, though the man now calls it stolen,” Jon said. “He is in Pentos, calling all loyal men to his banner.”

 “And Lyanna?” Eddard asked.

 He hoped, even though he knew hope was the harshest brew of all when disappointed.

 “I’m so sorry. She’s dead, my boy,” the Lord of the Eyrie gently said. “Buried in a garden in Oldtown, taken by a fever. But not before giving birth to a boy. Rhaegar named him Jaehaerys and keeps him close.”

 It had been a long time since Eddard had felt like screaming, but he did now. Lya, oh Lya, he thought. Lost to them all because she had fallen for the sweet lies of the Minstrel Prince. The dark-haired man knew better than to call it an abduction, for he remembered Benjen’s guilty confessions and oath to take the black after the war. But how could she have stayed willingly, after Rhaegar’s own father fed theirs to wildfire as Brandon was made to watch? The Targaryens had maimed House Stark again and again. Father burned alive, Brandon made a husk of a man starved in the dark cells until Ned freed him. And most grievous of all, the wild girl they’d all loved so deeply.  _You deserved a better death than fever_ , he thought.  _You had the courage of ten of me_. The Stark remained silent for a long time under Jon’s pitying gaze.

 “Robert knows?” he asked hoarsely.

 “He has not left his rooms since,” Jon said. “Eddard, I need you to speak to him. He will not listen to me. I know you two have quarrelled, but-”

 “I will go,” Ned said, rising to his feet.

 He found himself unsteady, light-headed. But firm in his answer regardless. He would not keep anger with one of the only two men in King’s Landing who could truly share his grief. Perhaps the only one. Brandon had been awake only for moments when he’d left, delirious with milk of the poppy. Jon caught his arm, preventing him from leaving that very instant.

 “He needs to marry, Eddard,” the Lord of the Eyrie said. “Grieve, but understand that the war is far from over. In Dorne they speak of rising for Viserys, Mace Tyrell did not bend the knee willingly and Lord Tywin expects reward for his toil.”

 “His daughter wed for the murder of babes,” Eddard replied, tone thick with disgust.

 “He is a powerful man,” Jon cautioned. “And one easily offended. Mind your tongue, Ned. The Lannisters miss nothing and remember long.”

  _All he has brought to our cause is dishonour_ , Eddard thought.  _A city sacked, women and children murdered. Even his son broke his vows._  He found Robert’s rooms easily, and came in without knocking.

 “Out, you cunts!” Robert growled, though his anger slurred. “I’m still your bloody king and I have you a command.”

 The room had been trashed, Ned saw. The table splintered by hammer blows, chairs thrown against the walls and the bed’s drapery. It stank of vomit, spilled wine and faintly of a musk Eddard recognized. Robert had had women in here, though not recently. Not since he’d heard about Lyanna, he would have like to think, but he was not so certain as he would have been a year ago. The dark-haired man closed the door behind him. Robert was by the window, wineskin in hand and clothes in disarray. He had not shaved in days, uneven patches beard growin on his face, and from the smell of it not bathed either. The King of the Seven Kingdoms turned, face furious.

 “Did you not hear me -” he started, but then he saw and the anger was whisked out of him. “Ned.”

 That was the voice of a broken man, and for the first time since they’d quarrelled Eddard was looking at the boy he’d grown up with.

 “I heard,” he simply said.

 They found themselves seated with their backs against the bed as if they were boys hiding for mischief, but Robert was weeping and Ned’s own eyes were red. His foster-brother was speaking as if in tongues, his words making little sense between the sobs. Lyanna’s name was spoken often.

 “I would have loved her,” Robert finally croaked. “More than anything and anyone.”

  _Love is sweet, Ned, but it does not change a man’s nature_ , he remembered his sister saying. Would she still think that, looking at Robert now? He wished he knew. Sometimes he thought the woman who had gone south with a prince a stranger, one made by his own hand through years of distance and sparse letters.

 “I know,” he whispered.

 “And now her murderer plays king across the sea,” Robert spat. “As if the craven had not fled at the sight of us, away from every battle.”

 Ned did not contest the curse, for Rhaegar had killed her with the birthing bed just as surely as if he had wielded a blade.

 “The war is not over,” he solemnly said.

 “Jon wants me to marry Cersei Lannister,” the king confessed. “He spoke of it to me twice before I threw him out of the room. That was ill-done of me.”

 “He means for you to keep your throne,” Eddard said.

 It was the most impassioned defence he could muster, there and then. Robert had had days to calm his grief, but Ned’s was still fresh.  _But I am the dutiful one_ , he thought bitterly.  _And so Jon asks me to speak regardless._

 “Fuck the Iron Throne,” Robert growled. “I never asked for it, and I will not sit my arse on that ugly chair until Rhaegar Targaryen is dead.”

 Years later, Eddard would think back on how it all began and remembered those two sentences. The grief that moved the world, singers came to call it.


	2. Chapter 2

He stayed with Robert for a few hours, and between the two of them they finished the rest of the wineskin. They spoke of better days and what could have been until there was nothing left in the king’s broad frame other than tiredness. He fell asleep, head resting against the bed’s frame. Eddard took servants aside and ordered them to draw a bath and find fresh clothes for his foster-brother when he woke. With the stink of a hard ride still on him, he sought the same. Dressed in Stark grey and white, Ned went looking for a meal and found northmen already at a table in the great hall - in the absence of the king, meals had become informal affairs. He was greeted warmly by the Greatjon and suffered Roose Bolton’s pale eyes watching him in silence, the lords who’d accompanied him south joining them before long. He learned two things from the conversations that followed. The first was that Brandon was awake and though not hale neither was he in danger of dying in his bed anymore. His brother had already met with most of the lords.  
  
The second thing he learned was not so pleasant to hear. It was the Greatjon who first brought it up. Brandon could no longer walk without help, and hardly with it. An Umber man japed Catelyn Tully would be pleased to hear of it. She’d no longer have to worry about her husband chasing girls, only the ones that came to him wet and willing. The wave of bawdy laughter that followed troubled Ned. Brandon had always been beloved, in the North. Surely crippling would not be enough to earn him this kind of mockery? Eddard had led these men in battle at the Stony Sept and the Trident, marched with them to relieve Storm’s End. He’d thought better of them. Roose Bolton’s eyes remained on him all the while, considering, but it was not until the Greatjon spoke that he realized what was unfolding.  
  
“He can’t rule the North from a bloody chair, Ned,” the large man said. “The maesters have him on the poppy like mother’s milk besides. Good as addled, he is. He should renounce his claim.”  
  
Eddard’s blood ran cold. He  _had_  led these men in battle. He knew them and they knew him, had grown used to taking his commands.  
  
“Brandon will grow strong again,” he said.  
  
“Mad King left more bone than meat before he lost his taste, they say,” William Dustin said.  
  
Ned remembered how the young lord had followed him south so willingly, and how his wife had once been said to have had other affections. That she had wept for a sennight upon his betrothal. Lord Dustin had been his brother’s friend since young, but some grudges men held even through things such as that.  
  
“You stood in his name when marrying Lady Catelyn,” Roose Bolton said. “And swore to her father you would fulfill Lord Brandon’s obligation, should he be lost. Some men might say your brother’s wounds match that meaning.”  
  
“I am not one of those men,” Eddard said coldly.  
  
The taste of the pork soured in his mouth, he rose to his feet and left after clipped excuses. If anything, it seemed to make the lords more intent in their words. Later that night, when he confessed the whole matter to Jon, the Lord of the Eyrie smile thinly and told him that his reluctance only made him seem more honourable in their eyes. In too dark a mood to find further company among other northerners, Ned had a servant lead him to Brandon’s rooms. Given the lateness of the hour he’d meant to wait until the morrow before speaking to his brother, but now he wanted to see him with his own eyes. Grand Maester Pycelle was leaving when he arrived, the old man lingered to speak with him.  
  
“Lord Eddard,” Pycelle wheezed. “A great honour, to meet one of the heroes of the rebellion.”  
  
“Grand Maester,” Ned greeted him. “You’ve been treating my brother?”  
  
“I have had this privilege,” the man said, stroking his long beard.  
  
“And?”  
  
“Lord Brandon has grown lucid again,” Pycelle said. “He will still need milk of the poppy for the pain when waking, but we may wean him of this in time.”  
  
Good news this, but it felt like the sun before snowfall.  
  
“He will never walk without a cane to lean on,” the maester added. “And not for long when he does.”  
  
The dark-haired man felt grief well up again. Another horror laid at Targaryen feet. Brandon had loved to ride, been called half-horse when they were young, and now he might never saddle a horse again.  
  
“Thank you, Grand Maester,” he said.  
  
The old man ambled away, seemingly more frail every time Ned saw him. The Stark opened the door and found his brother in bed, a cup of wine in hand. Eddard had seen the injuries the Mad King had made him before, when he’d been delivered from the dark cells, and so he did not flinch at the sight. His face had been left untouched save for a chunk taken out of his left cheek, charred with wildfire. It was a mercy compared to what his chest displayed: cuts made with red-hot knives, driven into the flesh. Over his heart, half-bandaged, a branding iron with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen had been pressed. Aerys had shrieked with laughter as he watched, Ned had been told. Chortled that at least one Stark would keep his allegiances to heart.  
  
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” Brandon said, tone light.  
  
Eddard cursed himself for having allowed his eyes to linger.  
  
“Brandon, I-”  
  
“Sit down, Ned,” his brother said, patting the side of the bed. “Have some wine. Only thing I can keep down these days.”  
  
Eddard carefully sat on the edge of the sheets, careful not to jostle the other man.  
  
“I’ve already had too much,” he said. “Let it be all yours instead.”  
  
For all that men had called him addled by the poppy, Brandon’s eyes sharpened swiftly.  
  
“Went to see the Baratheon, did you?” he smiled. “And before your own blood too.”  
  
It took Ned a moment to grasp that his brother was wroth, smiling as he was.  
  
“There was a need,” he said gravely.  
  
“Aye, a great need,” Brandon said cuttingly. “Cups don’t empty themselves.”  
  
“Lyanna-”  
  
“Was my sister as well, or have you forgot,” his brother barked. “Though I can hardly blame you. I seem quite forgotten, here in my little room.”  
  
“You’re drunk,” Ned said.  
  
“You would be too, if you’d watched Father die,” Brandon said, eyes feverish. “He meant for me to die too, did you know? Aerys. He had a contraption read, leather on my neck. But he changed his mind.”  
  
His brother’s smile was ugly.  
  
“He wanted all three of us,” Brandon said. “Three brothers, to burn the whole filthy pack. And so I was given the knives instead, and my cheek to teach me my place.”  
  
Ned’s hand rose, to take his shoulder, but the other man turned away.  
  
“Why haven’t they come to see me, Ned?” Brandon asked suddenly. “My bannermen. I am Lord of Winterfell now.”  
  
Eddard kept silent, for what could he say?  
  
“Quiet Ned,” his brother smiled. “We always thought it was because you had nothing to say, dull thing that you are, but you must have whispered quite a bit behind my back.”  
  
Brandon drank deep from his cup.  
  
“Is this because of Ashara?” he slurred. “She was too much woman for you to handle, brother. I spared you more fumbling by taking the matter in hand.”  
  
Ned’s eyes widened.  
  
“You dishonoured her,” he said.  
  
“She was quite eager for it,” Brandon said cruelly. “Women usually are. Less so now, but cripple or not I am the Lord of Winterfell.”  
  
“You’re married, Brandon,” Eddard said, appalled.  
  
“I took no vows,” his brother said.  
  
“I took them in your name,” Ned said sharply. “In good faith.”  
  
“If you loved us half as much as you love your honour, little brother, Lyanna might still be alive,” he said.  
  
There was only so much cruelty Eddard was willing to suffer from his brother, drunk or not, and so he stiffly rose. They would speak again in the morning, when Brandon was sober.  
  
“Oh, and Ned,” Brandon called out as he neared the door.  
  
Eddard paused, warily.  
  
“It would be better if you stayed south with your king,” Brandon said. “Now get out.”


	3. Chapter 3

He’d felt the need for the godswood, after that. It was easier to find peace when surrounded by the quiet and the rustling leaves, the tall silhouettes of elms and alders that surrounded the great oak that was the heart tree. How long he knelt there he did not know, but eventually his burdens felt lighter. He would keep to his duty, no matter how bitter the brew. If his home was barred to him even after Brandon sobered, if the gates of Winterfell were closed, he would stay here. In this nest of snakes, to guard Robert. He was no anointed knight and had stood no vigil, but he would not be the first northman to take the vows of the Kingsguard. It was not such a horrible thing, for a second son to find such a purpose. He would have to write Benjen, he thought. His younger brother could not take the black, not if Ned himself swore to have no wife. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and if Brandon… Better not to think of that. But Benjen must marry nonetheless. If he sought atonement he could find it in furthering the Stark name.  
  
Eddard rose in the dark, his knees darkened by the moss and dead leaves from his kneeling. His footing was sure, even at night. The godswoods here were tame, made more garden than holy place by centuries of Andal tending, and if could tread the grounds of Winterfell’s godswood in the dark he could tread these easier. Ned heard the voices before he glimpsed who they belonged to, to the side of the path he’d taken. Even under the light of the moon the two of them were tall and golden and striking to see: the Lannister twins had visited the godswood same as he, though he’d not heard they kept to the Old Gods. Perhaps Ser Jaime was simply showing his sister the forest he’d had the chance to see before sliding his blade into his king’s back. If their father had his way, Lady Cersei would rule them soon enough. The thought was darker, more unforgiving than it would have been this morning. Jon had always told Ned he’d been blessed with patience, but the Stark had precious little of it left to give.  
  
“Lord Eddard,” the Kingslayer called, voice easy. “Always a pleasant surprise.”  
  
Eddard’s grey eyes flicked over to his twin, beautiful as she was rumoured to be vicious in her red dress. Red and gold. Always red and gold for them, from cradle to grave. Lady Cersei’s hair was in disarray and Ned was not surprised. He soft doe leather shoes were not meant for woods such as these. Her displeasure at seeing him here was evident. Jon’s words were still fresh to his mind. Ned had slighted the Lannisters by speaking for justice to be done and the Kingslayer sent to the Wall, and these two were unlikely to forget it.  
  
“Ser Jaime,” he replied, then inclined his head. “Lady Cersei.”  
  
“I’d heard northmen stalked woods like ghosts in the night,” the Lannister woman said. “I’d not thought it truth until now.”  
  
“Now, Cersei, Lord Stark is a long way from Winterfell,” the Kingslayer smiled. “Perhaps these woods remind him of home.”  
  
It was not the first jape he’d heard from a southerner about the North being backwater, or the first he’d been expected to let pass without a reply. From the way the Lannisters carried on, claiming for rewards, you would expect they’d been Robert’s supporters from the beginning. As if what they had brought to the cause was not betrayal and the corpses of children. Eddard was not a bantering man by nature and he had no intention of trading barbs with these two. He began to move again, without warning, and the suddenness of the movement had Ser Jaime reaching for his sword. Ned watched him calmly.  
  
“I would not linger, Lady Cersei,” the Stark said. “All sorts of beasts come out by moonlight.”  
  
The Kingslayer’s jaw tightened, but Eddard did not look back.  
  
\--  
  
“The royal fleet set sail for Pentos,” Jon said. “So have the Velaryons and all the houses sworn to Dragonstone. We’ve word Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys went with them.”  
  
Ned had slept deeply and broken fast in a somber mood, only to be summoned to the Small Council room not after. There he had found Jon and Robert, but also the second Baratheon son. Stannis’ cheeks were still hollow from the siege of Storm’s End, where he had held out against the might of the Reach in full with a handful of men. He hated the Tyrells for it and had taken no pains to hide this, more than once speaking up to say Mace Tyrell should have been made to kneel on harsher terms. Though near twenty he carried himself as an older man, and had the broad Baratheon shoulders to carry that impression. He looked a thinner, sour version of his brother, who seemed every inch a king in his Baratheon doublet and a golden crown on his brow.  
  
“Dregs,” Robert said. “We’ve killed all the warriors worth the name in the Crownlands, or made them kneel. They and their rapist prince will break the moment we land on their shores.”  
  
“We have no fleet to take an army across the Narrow Sea,” Stannis said, grinding his teeth. “The Greyjoys fled back to their islands and House Redwyne was starving Storm’s End not so long ago.”  
  
It was not the first time he said this, but Robert had yet to listen.  
  
“Robert,” Jon sighed. “We cannot invade Pentos. Even if we had the ships doing so risks dragging the other Free Cities into the war. They will not look kindly on the Iron Throne seizing one of them.”  
  
“They cannot be allowed to be a sanctuary where the Targaryens rally their forces,” Eddard said, speaking for the the first time since he’d greeted the others.  
  
Robert thumped the table.  
  
“There,” he exhaled. “Finally some sense. Even Ned agrees with me.”  
  
“We will send letters to the magisters,” Jon assured him. “And they will carry a great deal more weight if all Seven Kingdoms stand behind us.”  
  
Ned was not an intriguer, but even he could see the matter his foster-father was attempting to bring up.  
  
“Letters,” the king snarled. “Rhaegar fucking Targaryen gathers an army and you talk to me of  _letters_. If I wed the bloody girl, Jon, will Lord Tywin shit me a golden fleet? There will be no more talk of the Lady Cersei and her teats, tight as her bodices may be.”  
  
It was shameful, Eddard thought, for him to be this amused by the insults heaped at the feet of House Lannister. He was anyway.  
  
“Will Dorne rise for Viserys?” he asked Jon instead of smiling.  
  
“Not with the boy in Rhaegar’s hands,” the Lord of the Eyrie said, sending him a grateful look. “Though that does not makes Doran Martell loyal in the slightest. I meant to sail to Sunspear and treat with him but you two seem intent on starting a war with all Valyria’s daughters.”  
  
“Just the one spreading her legs for the wretch,” Robert said.  
  
“We should ask hostages of Mace Tyrell and his bannermen,” Stannis said, voice cold. “Let them think of rising again with their sons on the chopping block.”  
  
“There is no surer way to make certain the Reach will declare for Rhaegar,” Jon said. “They’ve already bent the knee. To add terms now would be to go back on our word.”  
  
“They did not think much of words, when they feasted in front of the walls as we starved,” the younger man said, grinding his teeth. “Let justice be done. Let them think twice before turning their cloaks.”  
  
“Gods,” Robert screamed, “Tyrells and Martells and the whole fucking south can burn for all I care. We called our banners to kill Targaryens, and there’s the worst of them across the water.  _Lyanna’s murderer_  watches us from Pentos and names us usurpers and rebels.”  
  
Silence followed the storm and a calm, cold voice cut through it. Ned was surprised to find it was his.  
  
“Rhaegar Targaryen must die,” he said. “There can be no compromise on this.”  
  
“The King of the Seven Kingdoms cannot go to war with Pentos,” Jon said, and in a tone he well recognized. It was the lordly voice, the one he used on his bannermen. “No great lord will follow you in this, Robert.”  
  
Robert’s face darkened with fury. He ripped the crown off his brow and tossed it to Stannis, who caught it before it tumbled to the ground looking like he’d been struck across the face.  
  
“Then Stannis can have the bloody thing and the Lannister wench with it,” he said. “I’ll be going to Pentos even if I have to row the boat myself.”  
  
He turned to Eddard and hesitated.  
  
“Ned?”  
  
“Always,” Eddard replied, and spoke the word like an oath.  
  
 _Long live Stannis Baratheon,_  he thought.  _First of his Name. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Protector of the Realm._  Screaming followed, but the decision was made.


	4. Chapter 4

Jon insisted the meeting end and be resumed when tempers had cooled, but it was a mistake. By then the notion had sunk its hooks in Robert’s mind, and he was not an easy man to convince he was wrong. Several loud rows ensued over the following sennight, ending when Robert threatened to pawn all the dragonbone in the Red Keep and use it to buy passage across the Narrow Sea if he had to repeat himself one more time. Ned saw the moment that it truly sunk in, that there would be no talking his foster-brother out of the abdication with clever arguments, and it Jon Arryn looked like they’d broken his heart. It made them hesitate enough that when he quietly asked for Robert to wait before passing the crown, they did not have it in them to refuse. As Eddard later said in private, they would need to gather men before setting sail anyway. A few months could not be begrudged, if they ensured the Seven Kingdoms did not collapse.  
  
Rumours were already making their way through the Red Keep and the lords assembled there began to move. First among them Tywin Lannister, who was worried and for good reason. His son had broken an oath, and though Stannis was not a well-known man his open contempt for the Kingslayer made his intentions clear. Robert was still king, for now, and the Lord of the Casterly Rock wanted the matter settled to his liking before the younger brother took the crown. The arrogance of the Lannisters in the city had been replaced with uneasiness, and Ned knew it to be a dangerous thing. The last time Lord Tywin had felt cornered, the city had been sacked. He could not do the same again with so many other hosts still camped outside King’s Landing, but desperate men did desperate things and few wanted to spark another war - for there was little doubt there would be one, if Jaime Lannister was sent to the headsman as Prince Stannis had bluntly told him he should have been.  
  
Ned could almost admire him for that. He’d shared the same opinion after looking at Aerys’ corpse, though advocated for the Night’s Watch when he found no perchance. The Lord of Casterly Rock disappeared into a solar with Jon Arryn for the better part of a morning and when Eddard’s foster-father the gathering of four the servants were calling the Smallest Council was called again.  
  
“Ser Jaime needs to be pardoned for his slaying of Aerys,” Jon said, long beyond delicate introductions.  
  
“The Kingslayer broke a sacred vow,” Stannis said through gritted teeth. “All men answer to laws.”  
  
Ned did not know if Jon Arryn would remain Hand of the King after Stannis took the crown, and was not sure if the older man would offer. Watching them glare, he did not think it likely.  
  
“He slew a mad king,” the Lord of the Eyrie said, speaking to Robert directly. “A vow was broken, but for good purpose.”  
  
“All men should be offered the chance to take the black,” Ned said. “The purpose might have been just, but the act was not.”  
  
“Robert, we cannot push Tywin this far,” Jon said. “He is beyond reconciliation with the Targaryens but that does not make him harmless.”  
  
“This is a matter of justice, not power,” Stannis said.  
  
Robert glanced at Ned, who shook his head. He’d already spoken his due.  
  
“The longer we deal with this bickering, the longer we delay,” the king grunted. “Tywin can have his due. Jaime Lannister is pardoned, and no longer Kingsguard. Can’t have white cloaks killing their kings.”  
  
“Robert,” Eddard said sharply.  
  
“Gods, are you all women?” he complained. “Seven years. The Kingslayer broke an oath to the Seven, and so must fight with us against the Targaryens for seven years in contrition. I’m sure some septon will make a preaching of it.”  
  
There were few things Ned wanted less than the continued company of Jaime Lannister, but the eldest Baratheon had already lost interest in the matter and would not be moved. Another morning went by with Jon and Lord Tywin in the solar, the two of them eventually joined by Prince Stannis. The Lord of Casterly Rock had a triumphant look in his eyes coming out and that very day the betrothal of Stannis Baratheon and Lady Cersei Lannister was announced, along with the Kingslayer’s fate. That both Prince Stannis and Lady Cersei looked as if they had a mouthful of ash to swallow at the announcement did not go unnoticed. Eddard did his duty and gave word of congratulations, but he had more important matters on his mind. Rhaegar Targaryen could not be called to account with three men, no matter how skilled at arms. There was a need for good men to take with them, as many as they could rally.  
  
Fortunately, Robert was a popular man still. In the Stormlands, he was seen as the Warrior given flesh. They’d both made friends during their fostering at the Vale, and Ned himself had proved to have nigh too many men fond of him among the northerners. The greatest boon was not anything of their own doing, but handed to them as an unforeseen gift. Eddard was speaking numbers with the lords of the North, for there were many old men and poor ones who might walk into the snow come winter that could instead seek their fortune in Essos, and Robert was holding court with a few strutting young lords of the Stormlands when the Blackfish joined them, calling for ale and grinning at them over his beard. The Greatjon had a tankard in his hand before he’d even finished speaking.  
  
“So,” he said, drinking deep. “I hear you strapping young lads want to beard Pentos.”  
  
“The bitch is asking for it,” Robert replied. “She has poor taste in men.”  
  
“Most women do, Your Grace,” Brynden Tully said. “Or you would not have begot so many bastards.”  
  
There was a round of laughter at that, Robert loudest among them.  
  
“Hoster has begun baying about marriage again,” the Blackfish said after. “It occurs to me I am not yet too old for one last fool war.”  
  
The offer quickened Ned’s pulse. Ser Brynden was one of the most famed commander in Westeros, a veteran of the War of Ninepenny King. Even if he were too old to hold a sword, and he’d proved otherwise in the rebellion, his knowledge of the Free Cities would be worth its weight in gold.  
  
“You’ll be the first trout to the cross the sea, I wager,” Robert japed, and no more needed to be said.  
  
The Blackfish had come with more than his own sword and wits to offer, they found out. He had the name of every hedge knight and second son in the Tully host that had  _more balls than brains_ , as he called it. But perhaps most important of all, he had an old acquaintance to speak of.  
  
“The Tattered Prince, he calls himself,” Ser Brynden said. “Fought for and against the Band of Nine, when the pay was good on either side.”  
  
“If we’re to bleed gold for sellswords why settle for anything but the Golden Company?” Ser Mark said. “They’ve no love for the Targaryens.”  
  
The Ryswell knight had been among the first to answer Ned’s call, his gentle heart turned to wroth by the death of Lyanna. There were many in the North who wanted to pay that debt in blood.  
  
“Ah, he’s just not any sellsword cunt,” the Blackfish said. “He’s a cunt that was once Prince of Pentos, if he tells it true. He has no love for the city, at least that much is no lie. For revenge and a profitable sack, we might bring his Windblown to our side without ruining our coffers.”  
  
Said coffers were the reason for Eddard’s sleepless nights. As Robert had no interest in “counting coppers” he’d been made the Master of Coin of this venture in all but name. Robert no longer had the coffers of Storm’s End to draw from and Ned had never had any claim to those of Winterfell, but so far they’d made due with emptying the Targaryen vaults. Robert had claimed them by right of conquest, a weak gesture that so far no one had seen fit to contest - he was, after all, still king. No doubt King Stannis would curse him bitterly after taking the throne.  
  
“Sacking Pentos is not the purpose of this,” Ned reminded them.  
  
“You take a host through the breach, Stark, you’ll get a sack,” the Blackfish told him. “No purpose needed for it.”  
  
It was when the Kingslayer joined them with a band of Westerlands knights, claiming to be stirred by the adventure but clearly there at Lord Tywin’s bidding, and announced that his uncle Gerion was gathering men to come as well that Eddard decided the quiet inquiries he’d made about the handful of carracks in King’s Landing would not be nearly enough.


	5. Chapter 5

The lay of it was growing beyond Ned’s ability to rule. Too many men were joining them, and they needed beds and meals and to cease brawling in the streets. The goldcloaks were no help, gutted by the sack as they were, and Jon Arryn’s valemen kept peace in the city with cudgels but refused to do the same in the camps outside the walls. Howland stayed at his side, though his friend had a babe fresh born in Greywater Watch, and had quietly made his intent known to follow him across the sea.  _For Lady Lyanna_ , he’d said. Crannogmen were a strange folk but a loyal one. Half his men stayed with him. From the mountain clans only old men remained, but they were not few and hardy warriors besides. Jorah Mormont went home to his wife but his aunt Maege kept a score of the Bear Island men with her, boasting they were worth ten warriors each. The Glovers sent Ser Ethan, once Brandon’s own squire, and Greatjon pledged himself to the host at least until Summer waned. His uncles were made shared castellans and sent North, leaving a third of the Umber men behind.  
  
Lord Rickard Karstark went back to his keep, and in apology left a company of heavy horse with his brother Arnulf and the man’s eldest son to lead it. The lord of Hornwood was childless and would not go into battle on a foreign shore, but left his wounded under his goodbrother Leobald Tallhart, who was granted by Lord Tallhart men to chance his fortune. William Dustin went North have spending an hour in Brandon’s room, but left foot under his bannerman Harwood Stout of Goldgrass.  _Lord William must wish he had two mouths, so he could suck two Starks cocks at once,_ Greatjon mocked after he left, and if Robert had now wrestled them into the ground with wild laughter either he or Lord Stout would have died fighting in the mud for the slight. Medger Cerwyn came to Eddard himself before leaving, speaking of the son he still lacked. Ned was understanding and did not press the matter but the man gave over twenty riders to Eddard personally, a token of the long faith kept between Castle Cerwyn and Winterfell.  
  
 _Brandon is Lord of Winterfell_ , he wanted to reply.  _Not me, never me_. But he needed the horse, so he swallowed his tongue and thanked with proper courtesy. Over a thousand men from the North alone, and though Ned was coming to understand he was not unloved in the North he was but a candle there to the bonfire that was Robert in the Stormlands. Lord Manderly, Eddard approached himself. Lord Wyman’s second son, Ser Wendel, had already pledged his sword to the cause and his father was not ungenerous in pledging men himself, even allowing any of the hundred landed knights sworn to him to join if they would. Barely a tenth did. When Ned delicately broached the matter of ships, Lord Wyman hesitated.  _He does not want to have the thirty ships of his house smashed by the royal fleet in the crossing_ , Eddard thought. Only a fool would have thought no raven would leave King’s Landing for Pentos when Robert’s army set sail. Rhaegar was still beloved there.  
  
“I would not take the ships into battle,” Eddard said. “We mean to make shore north of Myr and march.”  
  
“The sea can be treacherous, Lord Eddard,” Manderly replied. “We of White Harbour knows this best of the northmen.”  
  
Ned awkwardly approached the matter of remuneration for the trouble, but Lord Wyman took offense.  
  
“The Manderlys have never needed coin to hold to their oaths,” he said.  
  
“You have sworn no oath to me,” he reminded.  
  
“I would have, were you a lesser man,” Wyman admitted. “My house were but beggars, when the Starks took us in and gave us our keep.”  
  
The fat man looked troubled.  
  
“I see more of those great men in you than your brother, I fear,” he said. “You will have my ships, Lord Eddard, though for the crossing and nothing else. I wish you luck in the wars to come.”  
  
Having given enough offence today, Ned did not bring up coin again. Lord Ryswell left the capital after calling his nephew Ser Mark a damned fool for choosing to go die in the heat, himself pledging nothing but loyalty to his foster-son Brandon Stark. Roose Bolton made his courtesies in that quiet way of his, but left only his cripples in King’s Landing. It was said he was one of the few lords of the North who had taken to spending hours in Brandon’s rooms, even offering leeches to clean the Lord of Winterfell’s blood from the poppy. As for Brandon himself, Ned had not spoken to him since their first meeting. He’d tried twice but was turned away at the door. The more days passed the less he felt inclined to try again. Grief and pain had turned his brother into a stranger. As Robert and Ser Brynden took to roping in men from the Stormlands and the Riverlands, Eddard watched the coin taken from the Targaryens melt like snow in the sun. How many months, before they were naught but well-armed beggars? As he often did, he sought advice from Jon before the Lord of the Eyrie left for Dorne.  
  
“The Iron Bank will not lend you coin to smash a city Braavos has already called to heel,” the older man told him. “And Lord Tywin has already promised a king’s ransom to see his daughter wed to Prince Stannis.”  
  
“House Tyrell is wealthy,” Ned said, hesitatingly.  
  
“And sees Robert and his brothers as usurpers still,” Jon said. “Pentos claims much of the lands that were once Andalos, Ned. Speak to the Faith. For all that they pretend to be above such things they are wealthy as any king.”  
  
Those who held to the Old Gods were still frowned upon by the Faith, Eddard knew. He would not be able to do so alone. It would have to wait, then, though he dared not delay for long. The lack of a fleet was becoming a looming doom upon all their designs. The Manderly ships would not be enough for all the men that had answered the call. Warriors of the Stormlands were still pouring in every sennight, knights and foot and smallfolk with spears but no armour save the many songs about the victor of the Trident. The Blackfish had brought numbers more modest, but they held many archers and men who’d fought in the War of Ninepenny Kings with him. Already there were three thousand men in the camps, and the men of the Westerlands had yet to come in full. Gerion Lannister had pledged a ship as well as warriors, one he was said to have meant to sail into the ruins of Valyria. To ferry men across the Narrow Sea several times would invite disaster, Ned knew. Even if Rhaegar’s fleet did not find them it would be risking storms again and again. More ships were needed. Gulltown had a fleet, though a lesser one than White Harbour, and after rising against the Eyrie during the Rebellion they were eager to return in favour. With House Grafton, Ned made no offer of coin.  
  
It was still too little. House Lannister had a fleet match for both the ones pledged to Robert in Lannisport, but a raven sent to Casterly Rock brought back the answer that it would remain in Lannisport so long as the ironborn were not settled. Quellon Greyjoy had died failing to reave the Mander, during the rebellion, and his sons had hurried back to the islands for the succession. The eldest, Balon, was now Lord Reaper of Pyke.  
  
“Quellon was a decent man, for ironborn,” the Blackfish told him. “But his sons keep to the Old Ways.”  
  
The Riverlands knew the Iron Islands better than most, and so Eddard had sought advice.  
  
“The Iron Fleet would be a great help,” Ned said.  
  
“And they’d want half of Pentos as thralls for their help,” Ser Brynden said. “We’re not better than the Targaryens if we make slaves to see Rhaegar dead.”  
  
Eddard knew the truth of it, and reluctantly abandoned the notion. Perhaps it was for the best. The ironmen had never been friends to the North.  
  
“Paxter Redwyne just whelped a daughter,” the Blackfish said. “Goodbrother to Mace Tyrell he may be, but he would not lightly refuse a Baratheon marriage.”  
  
“Robert would never hear of it,” Ned said.  
  
“The king has two brothers,” the Tully replied. “Renly is only six. Not such a difference in age, not if it gets House Redwyne ties to both the throne and Storm’s End.”  
  
Renly had been endowed with Storm’s End not long after the abdication was set in stone, though the boy was too young to understand any of it. Eddard spoke of it to Robert, who agreed without much thought. Stannis was not so pleased. Words were spoken in anger that would be hard to take back, and Ned did not believe they would see much help from the Iron Throne after they crossed the sea. The raven flew anyway, for Robert was still king whenever he remembered to be. Before Paxter Redwyne gave answer, though, darker news came from Pentos. Rhaegar Targaryen had been crowned king by his mother, who still had a bellyful of babe and was getting sicker by the day. More importantly, the would-be king had hired sellswords.  
  
“He should not have the coin for it,” Ned said.  
  
Only Ser Brynden and Robert had joined him in the solar that was still Jon’s in his mind, gone as he might be.  
  
“Pentos opened her coffers as well as her legs,” Robert mocked, though his face was dark.  
  
Rhaegar had brought the Company of the Cat and the Long Lances to his side, and was said to still be looking for others.  
  
“It’s the magisters,” Ser Brynden said. “After they were whipped by the Sealord they lost the right to hire sellswords or field an army. But if they’re simply lending the coin to the Targaryens, well, that’s another matter.”  
  
“A loan from the Iron Bank may be possible, now,” Eddard frowned. “They will not smile on this.”  
  
“Find me the coppers, Ned,” Robert dismissed. “I’m going to find us a big fucking army while you do. We still have friends in the Vale and the Tyrells are not without enemies. Gods, I never thought learning all those names would actually have use.”


	6. Chapter 6

The raven from the Arbor came back before Jon Arryn did.  _A boy for a fleet_ , Ned thought.  _On such ugly bargains wars are made_. The betrothal of Renly Baratheon to Desmera Redwyne was quietly announced, and Prince Stannis ceased grinding his teeth long enough to bitingly comment that it was for the best Robert had no third brother, else he would trade him for a Valyrian blade. Lady Cersei smiled at that, over her cup of wine, but there was more poison than joy in it. Rumour had it the golden-haired betrothed of the prince had tried to have a servant switched for addressing her as lady instead of princess, though Stannis had intervened. Neither the Lannister nor Robert’s brother seemed ever to smile in the other’s presence, and already the prince’s insistence that the she cease speaking to the Kingslayer had been met with hard-eyed defiance.  
  
Eddard was sorry for it. Stannis had the cup passed to him, aye, but Robert had emptied it first and only Lord Tywin had offered to pour it full again. The Stark did not know what else had been bargained for in the solar, with only Jon Arryn to witness, but no one save the Lord of Casterly Rock had been glad leaving the room. Brandon left as soon as he was hale enough, Ser Barristan Selmy with him as well as many lords and knights of the Crownlands who had also taken the black. They would journey with him to Riverrun and Catelyn Tully, then up the Neck. No farewell was given between Starks. Ned sought one, if only to return Ice to his brother’s hand, but was once more refused at the door. In a rare fit of temper he’d swung the Valyrian greatsword into the wood, splintering it through and striding away before he could further shame himself. Greatjon japed Brandon must have pissed his bed at the sight of the blade going through, and there was more laughter in response than there would have been a moon ago.  
  
Winterfell was barred to him as long Brandon ruled there and though Eddard did not wish for his brother’s death, had not let the anger make such a man of him, the words spoken between them had never been taken back. Before the war he might have forgiven his brother, blamed the pain and the wine, but neither of them were the boys they’d once been. Robert was true to his word, and it only took a sennight of taverns and brothels before knights of the Vale began pledging their swords. Not much foot followed them, for they were small lords oft of the Fingers and other holdings that were no more than a tower and a herd of sheep, but they brought horses and that was what they needed most of all. The King’s Men, some had taken to calling the growing host. Stannis was furious of it and Eddard had quieted the talk before it grew, but there was no denying that many would think Robert the true king even when they sailed for Essos.  
  
There were dark things in the making, and neither of the Baratheon brothers did much to quell the currents. Lannisters still haunted the capital, red-cloaked men pelted with rocks in the streets and replying with steel if the valemen keeping the peace did not come quick enough. The sack would not be forgot easily. Ser Gerion was the latest to join the brood, on his ship the  _Laughing Lion_. He was as tall and handsome as his nephew, but his easy smiles did not carry the sharp edge the Kingslayer’s did. Ned did not find him as arrogant as the rest of his kinsmen, but Lannisters could not be trusted. He brought with him word that the Redwyne fleet had been preparing to set sail when he’d docked at Oldtown, welcome news by any means, but of Dorne he said nothing. He had not risked Sunspear on his way, preferring stale rations to spears in his back. Robert left the city not long after, riding for Brightwater Keep to secure more men. The Florents were old rivals of the Tyrells, and Alester Florent had wed his daughter to Randyll Tarly. His foster-brother spoke with bright eyes of bringing the only man who’d ever beaten him in battle with them to Pentos. Ned wished him well, and reminded him their coffers could not suffer much largesse on his part. Robert’s booming laughter at that was no comfort.  
  
When Jon Arryn finally returned from Sunspear the older man kept his calm countenance before prying eyes but spoke differently in the solar, when only Eddard was there to hear.  
  
“I mislike what brews in Dorne, Ned,” he admitted, fingers tight in his beard. “Doran Martell was prepared to swear to the Iron Throne, but only when Stannis sits it. He demanded wanted Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch for it as well, and would not hear otherwise.”  
  
“Neither are true knights, or good men at all,” the dark-haired man replied.  
  
“Tywin will not part with his hounds for a cheap price,” the Lord of the Eyrie.  
  
“Murderers and rapists for a kingdom his daughter will rule,” Ned said coldly. “Lord Tywin should live up to the words his kin are so fond are speaking. A debt is owed.”  
  
“We won the war, Eddard,” Jon sighed. “But the peace may yet unmake us. When you and Robert spoke of following Rhaegar to Pentos I thought you summer boys playing Daemon Targaryen, but you were wiser than I understood. I did you injustice in my thoughts.”  
  
“The Reach,” Ned said.  
  
“Mace Tyrell sent his banners home, feasts and speaks of great regrets,” Jon said darkly. “But he keeps an eye across the sea. We all must. Hoster wrote to me that he is no longer certain he should respect the pardons granted to some of his bannermen.”  
  
“He worries the Freys would declare for Rhaegar if he returned,” Eddard murmured.  
  
“And the Mootons, the Rygers, the Darrys,” Jon said. “The Riverlands have always been fractious, and few forget it was the Targaryens that raised House Tully. Some say turning on the dragons unmakes the right of rule.”  
  
And Lord Hoster was a man grown, loved by many. Renly would be Lord Paramount of the Stormlands as a boy, with one of his lords serving as Rhaegar’s Hand in Pentos. Jon Connington had been swift to join his prince, his exile revoked by royal decree. Robert had beaten no few houses at the Battle of Summerhall, and though they’d knelt for Robert Baratheon they might not remain kneeling for his brothers. The wounds of the rebellion were still bleeding across the realm, and Rhaegar meant to split them open for his claim.  _Madness_ , Ned thought.  _He weeps for songs but will burn the realm dry-eyed to claim the throne_.  
  
“Kill Rhaegar, my boy,” Jon said. “No Baratheon will sit easy on the throne so long as he and his line draw breath.”  
  
“We will hunt him,” Eddard promised grimly. “No matter how far he flees.”  
  
“Have you spoken to the Faith, then?” the Lord of the Eyrie asked.  
  
“I sent a man to Braavos, to seek a loan from the Iron Bank,” Ned replied. “He should return within a fortnight, winds willing.”  
  
“Better to have the coin come from Essos, if you can,” Jon said approvingly, then hesitated. “There are other news. I’m sorry Ned, so much grief has been set at your feet already and I know you were sweet on her. Ashara Dayne is dead. After Robert sent back Dawn to Starfall, she threw herself from the top of the Palestone Sword.”  
  
Eddard closed his eyes. A lesser grief than the still gaping void left by Lyanna, for he’d never had any claim to Ashara Dayne at all. Only a short dance and a laughing smile, that not even the lies or bitter truths Brandon had told could truly mar. He shared a silent cup of wine with his foster-father after that, and sought the godswood in the dark. The ledgers and letters could wait until morning, while he commended a bright soul to gods she had not kept to. He returned to toil with colder eyes in the days that followed. It has been a boy’s fancy, and he was no longer a boy. Winter was coming.  _I will carry it across the sea with me_ , he thought.  _Fire dims, blood grows cold. You should have remembered the Hour of the Wolf, Targaryen._  Robert sent a raven from Brightwater Keep that promised Florent men and from a score other houses, but Lord Tarly would not hear of Essos. The Hightowers and the Tyrells promised nothing, turning a blind eye. The Iron Bank sent its reply before Robert or the reachmen returned to the capital, even as word trickled in that the Redwyne fleet had passed the Broken Arm.  
  
A loan was possible, the letters said. Terms could be discussed, they said. With the Sealord in the room. That Ned had sent no letter to Ferrego Antaryon, a man he knew only the name and title of, seemed a conveniently ignored fact. They wanted Robert himself, or a man empowered to speak for him. Eddard approached the Blackfish, but the Tully declined.  _Too busy trying to turn our bastards into a proper army_ , he said. There were no other men who’d been to Essos, none he knew well and trusted. A raven was sent to the Reach and Robert wrote that no one knew the ledgers better than he. It would have to be him, then. The matter must not have been as discreet as he’d thought, for the same day he’d begun to make inquiries with the ships in port he was approached by Gerion Lannisters. The offered was made bluntly, and no price asked. Ned misliked the notion of being at sea for over a fortnight with Tywin Lannister’s brother, but the ledgers did not lie and Ser Gerion asked for no coin. He agreed, reluctantly, and the older man clapped him on the shoulder. They set sail as soon as tide allowed.  
  
To Braavos, then. To trade words for gold, and borrow death for the Silver Prince.


	7. Chapter 7

Ned did not grow seasick and was thankful for it, but it did not take long for him to grow restless on the ship. The  _Laughing Lion_  was was crewed by Lannisport sailors and a few easterners, and for all that Ser Gerion was captain in name the orders were given by a former Tyroshi sellsail more oft than not. The green-haired man knew the waters of the Narrow Sea well, and he was the one to suggest that the ship pass Claw Isle before crossing to avoid marauding captains of the royal fleet, whose sails it was said could be seen as far south as Tarth. As soon as they left sight of land, the lion-marked sail was replaced with the colours of a Lyseni merchant prince. Rhaegar was growing bold, Eddard thought, sure that his wooden host could not be matched by the men he still named traitors and rebels. The Stark tired early of reading the leather-bound ledgers he had brought with him, and after the second day could not stand to remain in his cramped cabin.  
  
Gerion Lannister sought his company almost eagerly, determined to make Ned like him. The older man freely plied him with wine and stories of the journeys he’d taken through the Free Cities upon coming of age. The drink Eddard took care to water, but the stories helped keep his mind from the dealings ahead of him. The blond-bearded man insisted they speak High Valyrian every morn after breaking their fast when he learned that Ned wrote and read it passably but had never had much practice speaking it. Jon Arryn had seen to it the maester gave them lessons, but since Robert had never paid them much heed the most Eddard had ever used it was when Lyanna had insisted he teach her words, whenever he returned to Winterfell. She’d been enamoured with the fancy of speaking some of the tongue of the warrior-queen Visenya, and much displeased ladies were not taught it.  
  
There were no duties for Ned to bury his grief in here, so he took to the sword again. He’d not returned to the training yard since the rebellion began, and did not want his swordhand to rust. He’d need it soon enough. Ser Gerion was glad of the exercise as well, and the begun to spend the afternoons sparring in the sun. The Lannister was taller and of a warrior’s build as well as over a decade older, but Eddard had seen hard fighting south of the Neck. It told, and Gerion came out of the practice more bruised than the younger man.  
  
“I can believe you slew the White Bull, now,” Ser Gerion laughed. “Even Tygett would find you hard to match.”  
  
Eddard denied the flattery, for Ser Gerold would have been the victor of their duel at the Trident had Howland not come to his aid, but the Lannister teased him for maidenly modesty. The days passed sluggishly as they sailed north, only coming in sight of the bastard daughter of Valyria after sundown on the eleventh night. They passed under the Titan at a crawl, and Ned’s face paled when a terrible groaning and grinding blast deafened the crew. He would have thought them under attack, had the crew not been untroubled. The monstrous silhouette towered in the dark, bonfires burning in its eyes. What manner of men could build a thing such as this? Eddard’s ancient kin had built the Wall, it was true, but the Wall did not roar like a living thing.  
  
“All ships must pass through the Chequy Port for inspection by the customs officers of the Sealord, before foreigners like us can dock at Ragman’s Harbour,” Ser Gerion told him on the deck, leaning against the railing. “But we need not remain on it. They will not come until morning.”  
  
The Lannister went on to speak of the many inns and winesinks he’d become acquainted with on his last visit, offering praises and curses both. He’d learned early on the voyage that talk of exotic brothels would get no smile from a Stark, and so delicately avoided the subject. His crew did not, arguing loudly on whether they should waste their pay on drink or cunts first. Ser Gerion insisted that they should settle for no inn but the House of Seven Lamps, the most reputable inn near Ragman’s Harbour, and Ned did not find it a battle worth fighting. It would cost greater coin, but what difference could it make? If the Iron Bank did not agree to a loan, a few silver stags less would not put off ruin for long. They docked at the Chequy Port, Ned watching the sight of the Arsenal jutting out from an outcropping of rock, tall walls and bristling with scorpions and trebuchets, as the Lannister spoke with an official of the Sealord and settled the matters. Coin exchange hands, Gerion telling him after that the  _Laughing Lion_  had mysteriously become the first ship to be inspected in the morning.  
  
It grated for Eddard to have taken part in bribery, even by looking away, but the dark-haired man kept his peace. This was a city of merchants, not lord, no matter how grand the sights. There was little honour to be found on the side of the Narrow Sea, and even less now that Rhaegar Targaryen had crossed. It surprised Ned to find the streets empty, windows shuttered and doors barred wherever they went. Even the Winter Town at night was not so deserted. Ser Gerion led them through the canals and the streets, seeming to remember the way or at least something close to it. The night was cool and Eddard was enjoying the relief from over a sennight on the ship when they found the reason the streets were deserted. The men at the docks had been soberly dressed, but these ones were decked in colourful silks and bore thin swords.  
  
“Bravos,” Ser Gerion warned. “Do not lay a hand on your hilt. They take it a challenge.”  
  
Loud words and taunts were offered, but neither of the Westerosi chose to answer them. The Lannister announced they were but a few moments from the House of Seven Lamps when another band of bravos began to stroll towards them. There were six, and they passed wineskins amongst them as they boasted proudly of their prowess in both war and love while impugning that of the others. Ned ignore them but a slender youth came to bar his way, smiling too widely.  
  
“All those who seek passage through our street must answer a question, my friends,” the youth said.  
  
“We’ve no desire to play, bravo,” Ser Gerion replied.  
  
“It is a matter of honour, sunset lord,” the youth said, wagging his finger. “Who is the most beautiful woman in the world?”  
  
The others laughed.  
  
“She is dead,” Ned said, thinking of dark locks and violet eyes.  
  
The bravo’s face darkened.  
  
“Your ignorant tongue has insulted the Nightingale,” he said, and drew steel. “You must answer for it.”  
  
“You borrow more trouble than you can afford,” Ser Gerion said. “We are to meet with keyholders and the Sealord on the morrow.”  
  
Some of the men turned uneasy at that, but most were drunk and the youth with the sword in hand was eager for blood. Eddard watched him with undisguised contempt.  _A man treating bare steel like a toy_ , he thought. Summer boys who had never seen war and did not know what they made a mummery of.  
  
“Draw your steel, sunset lord,” the youth said. “Or are you too craven to defend the name of whatever whore you champion?”  
  
Ned did. The bravos cheered, and japed of poking sunset full of holes. The youth took a strange sideways stance, guard rising for the thrust and victory already writ on his face. The tip of the slender blade flicked forward and Eddard batted it away, or would have were it not already gone. It tore through the leathers atop his shoulder, finding little blood but ripping through leather. He was swift, Ned thought. But he still thought it a game. The Stark struck, the bravo hurriedly giving ground as his opponent advanced. He danced to the side but Eddard ignored the pretty feints and struck down the slender blade. The weight of the blow had it tumbling out of the youth’s grip and his eyes went wide with fright. The pommel smashed through his teeth, spit and blood splattering the pavestones as the bravo screamed. Ned stood over him, sword rising, and swung. The blade touched the youth’s neck gently, not even parting skin. He looked to the other bravos, who were reaching for steel as well.  
  
“Take your friend,” he said. “Do not trouble us again.”  
  
He was not the kind of man who would kill fools, not yet. The others dragged away the bravo, who moaned through a broken mouth, and Ned turned to see Ser Gerion studying him with wondering eyes.  
  
“You are a more sentimental man than I’d thought, Lord Stark,” the Lannister said.  
  
“I did not come here to bloody green boys,” Eddard replied tiredly. "And regret that I did."  
  
No one accosted them on the rest of the way to the House of Seven Lamps.


	8. Chapter 8

The House of Seven Lamps smelled of incense. The rooms they paid for were adorned with Myrish carpets and Qohorik tapestries, the lucre of it uncomfortable to Ned. Not even his quarters in Winterfell had been so richly decorated, and these were rented rooms in what Ser Gerion assured him was not the most wealthiest part of the city. The featherbed was soft but Eddard slept uneasily. He’d had the wound on his shoulder cleaned and bandaged, a great fuss for what was little more than a nick. He broke his fast with the Lannister, dark ale with cuts of meat and buttered bread. They’d been speaking of heading to the Iron Bank after seeing to the ship, but their meal was interrupted. There was knocking on door to the private room they were eating in, and the innkeeper interrupted with flourishing apologies. A man was there to see them, he said. Someone important, though they had refused to give a name.  
  
The Westerosi traded looks and invited in the stranger. Ned had been expecting some trader seeking news of the Seven Kingdoms or perhaps a rich man attempting to buy berth with them when they left the city, but the cloaked man who came in was of a different breed. Swarthy in that way that came from sun and salt, thickly built but moving with the grace of a cat. Eddard had known killers, and this was a fine one. The man’s only lowered his hood when the door was closed again and named himself Qarro Volentin, Second Sword of Braavos. Ned had not know there would be any Sword but the first in the service of the Sealord, but Gerion saw no lie in the title. Perhaps they were as the whitecloaks, though fewer in number.  
  
“The Sealord is pleased you have journeyed swiftly, my lords,” Volentin said in heavily accented westron, after being invited to sit.  
  
Eddard was uncertain what to say. Ferrego Antaryon must want something of them, to offer such courtesies, but it could not be alliance. What need of a hood would the Second Sword have, if Braavos meant to proclaim friendship?  
  
“We are pleased by the Sealord’s pleasure,” Ser Gerion drawled, when it became clear Ned would not reply.  
  
Qarro Volentin’s eyes did not go to him, remaining on Eddard.  _They know who I am_ , the Stark thought.  _They know it is me who speaks for Robert and not him_. This city rose from shallow waters, but now if he misstepped he felt like he might drown.  
  
“We would be honoured to pay our respects at the palace,” Ned said gravely.  
  
There was a flicker there. The way Benjen’s face moved, when he wanted to grimace at Lyanna for her japes but only remembered then he would shame Father by being so childish. The Second Sword did not want them to call on the Sealord’s Palace. His own intent, or that of the man who ruled him?  
  
“Alas, Sealord Ferrego has been made prisoner by his duties,” Volentin said. “Perhaps a more quiet audience might be arranged, in the Antaryon towers by the Long Canal. He would not have treasured guests drawn into Braavosi disputes.”  
  
“I well understand the demands of duty,” Eddard said. “We will be sure to do so, when our dealings with the Iron Bank are done.”  
  
The Second Sword smiled.  
  
“Men of your station need not knock at the doors like traders,” he said. “My lord has taken the liberty to arrange a meeting for you with keyholders, three days from now.”  
  
“The Sealord is too kind,” Ser Gerion said. “You must thank him for the effort he undertook in our name.”  
  
There were currents at work here Ned could not see, and he misliked it. He’d not been fool enough to believe securing a loan from the Iron Bank would be a simple matter, but every one of these powerful men was dancing and only he was ignorant of the steps. Why make them sail here at all, if the matter had already been considered? Rhaegar had no friends in Braavos that were known to Eddard. The Targaryen had never crossed the Narrow Sea before making shore in Pentos, for the Mad King had been justly frightened of allowing his heir too far from his grasp.  _Would that Aerys had burned you first, before offering better men to the flames_ , he thought.  
  
“We would have you remember your time in Braavos fondly,” Valentin said. “Indeed, I come bearing an invitation to a gathering that boasts the finest of the Secret City.”  
  
The swarthy man offered them a folded parchment, bearing a seal Ned did not know. The words on it were High Valyrian, not the bastard tongue that was spoken in the streets. A man named Moroggo Reyaan sought their company for an evening feast, at a manse not far from the Purple Harbour. The gathering would be this very night. Eddard thought of declining, for he had not come to Braavos to break bread with merchant princes, but the Second Sword spoke again.  
  
“There will be a man there you might want to make the acquaintance of,” Valentin said. “A servant with a swallow-shaped brooch will take you to him.”  
  
Whispers and secrets and plots. Braavos seemed intent on taking payment in more ways than one, if it was to fund the host Robert was shaping in King’s Landing.  _Another man should have come_ , Eddard thought. One that was not a second son with nothing but battles and sorrow to his name. Jon would have known what to do. All Ned had was the quiet so often japed of, a cloak of silence to hide his disarray. He nodded without a word, the Second Sword’s shoulders loosening at the sight. Qarro Volentin bade his farewells after, but left them with a final word.  
  
“The Sealord heard of the mishap that followed your arrival,” he said. “He left his apology for the matter by the canal.”  
  
Ned has lost his hunger, after, but Ser Gerion finished a few more cuts of meat and another cup of ale.  
  
“Very mysterious, this Sealord,” the Lannister drawled. “The mummery in this fair city spreads from canal to tallest spire.”  
  
The tone the older man took was nigh the same as the one the Kingslayer did whenever he made his cutting japes, but there was more mockery than threat in Gerion’s voice. He was, Ned had come think, perhaps the only of Lord Tywin’s kin whose arrogance had been gentled by his years. There were worse men to hunt dragons with. A man should not be judged for the deeds of his brother. Ser Gerion had been in the Westerlands, during the sack and the foul deeds that red cloaks brought to Red Keep.  
  
“They want something of us,” Ned said.  
  
“I wager they want to make certain their gold will not trade a dragon for a stag as the facade for the magisters,” the Lannister said. “That would be a poor investment for the Iron Bank. Braavos fought many a war to humble Pentos.”  
  
“Robert would not take the city,” Eddard frowned. “He has no claim to it.”  
  
“Someone will be wearing a crown in Pentos after Rhaegar is dead, I can assure you that,” Ser Gerion said. “If not Robert, then thought should be given to who that will be.”  
  
“The Sealord may have a man for it,” Ned said. “It would explain why we must attend a feast of strangers.”  
  
“Must,” Ser Gerion repeated, amused. “Men kill for the privilege of attending Braavosi beauties, Eddard. There may even be famous courtesans among them. Is it true, then? That northmen cocks melt in the heat.”  
  
Ned looked at him in silence.  
  
“Don’t give me that stare, Stark,” the older man laughed. “It will not unnerve me, unlike our friend Qorro. Unlike him I’ve seen it on your father’s face, and you are not yet as fearsome.”  
  
The grief took him by surprise, when he remembered that never again would he see Rickard Stark in anger or joy. Only bones had returned to Winterfell.  
  
“I apologize, Eddard,” Ser Gerion said. “I did not mean to salt a wound.”  
  
“It does not matter,” Ned said. “I will not break by hearing his name.”  
  
There could be no lightness after that, for the Lannister was hesitant and Eddard unsure of how to change the mood. They finished their meal and only then did Ned remember the Second Sword’s parting words. The two of them went to the canal, the air better for the lack of incense. Of the apology Qorro Valentin has spoken of Eddard found nothing, until he glanced closer to the waterline. There was a corpse there, shackled to side of the canal. The slow current turned it until its face gaze up to the sky with lifeless eyes. The man had been beaten beyond recognition and his throat slit, but Ned knew him. The teeth missing in that lolling mouth had been broken by the pommel of his own sword.  
  
The Sealord’s envoy had called it an apology, but all the Stark saw was a warning.


	9. Chapter 9

Morrogo Reyaan was a magister, Ned learned, and a keyholder of the Iron Bank. The dark-haired man had thought the title one only granted to the slaver princes of the other Free Cities, but Ser Gerion told him it was used for wealthy and powerful men of Braavos as well. For all that there were no kings in the Secret City, there were old families. Some even styled themselves as houses, in the Westerosi way: Antaryon, the kinsmen of the Sealord, Prestayn, Otharys and the same Reyaan who had invited them. Inquiries revealed little of House Reyaan, save that it traded in spice and had a long history of bickering with the magisters in Pentos who traded in the same. That and the rumours that Morrogo and his sons were prodigiously fat, every one larger than the last. There was a much-loved song about an Ibbenese whaler trying to spear a bathing Reyaan, though men had been known to bleed for singing it. House Reyaan had armed guards and they were a touchy breed, though japes of whalesong coming from their towers were heard nonetheless.  
  
Ser Gerion was humming the very tune on the barge that took them to the manse, not long before sundown. Near midday the Lannister had disappeared by the Purple Harbour and returned hours later, freshly washed and in a light mood. Ned suspected what kind of establishment he had frequented but it was not his place to chide a man old enough to remember the War of Ninepenny Kings, if not to fight in it as his brothers had. Eddard had read the ledgers once more in his absence, and taken to the canals to reach the Isle of the Gods and the lesser holy islands that surrounded it. The Temple of the Moonsingers was famed even in Westeros, and the span of snow-white marble topped by domes of milk glass was worth a moment of awe. Men traded faith like trinkets here, and more than once he was approached by priests.  
  
An acolyte of the Cult of Starry Wisdom promised to tell him the secrets of celestial alignments for a silver, and grew angry when Ned asked if there was a godswood on any island instead. There was not, he learned from others. Buying grilled canal fish for coppers, Eddard sat himself by the wayside and listened to the bustle of the city. There was talk of Rhaegar, little of it flattering: Aerys’ son was called a mummer king, and pillow-boy of the Pentoshi who funded him. Robert had called him worse in his cups. For all that, the Targaryen was but an afterthought to the Braavosi. They spoke instead of bravos and their duels, of ships lost at sea or come back with holds full of spice and even of the famed courtesans of the city. The Nightingale was a fond topic, a young woman said to be so beautiful it made the moon blush with shame. Already a dozen youths had killed or died in her name.  _A dozen and one_ , Ned thought, remembering the corpse shackled by the waterline.  
  
The House of Black and White he only watched from a distance, for there was a stillness that hung around it that reminded him of weirwood groves in the hours before dawn. Jon had once spoke of hiring the faceless men that dwelled inside to have Rhaegar killed, but neither Ned nor Robert had been willing to hear of it. The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword. Eddard returned to the House of Seven Lamps before Ser Gerion, and the two of them set out of the Reyaan manse and the intrigues that would await within it. The Stark wore the colours of his house, a grey doublet with the direwolf embroidered over his heart. He took his sword as well, for there was not a man in this city he would trust. Ned had thought the inn they had settled in to be wealthy, but it was nothing to the manse. Guards in polished bronze ushered them through gardens, some of them walled with beasts from foreign shores dwelling within them. The man who guided them proudly boasted that Morrogo Reyaan’s menagerie was second only to that of the Sealord, and that a basilisk from Sothoryos had been brought in but a few days ago.  
  
When brought to the hall where other guests already lingered, they were introduced as  _Ser Gerion Lannister of Casterly Rock_  and  _Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell_. The dark-haired man was too struck by the sights in front of him to think much on it. A hall of warm stone had been made into a mummer’s dream, coloured panes of silk hanging from the ceiling as twisting lamp shadows cast by men and women depicted a hundred stories on them. A cup of dark liquor was pressed into his hand by a servant and Ned dully took it. At Gerion’s prompting they paid their respects to Morrogo Reyaan, who was as fat as the rumours had said. He also had sharp, dark eyes. Like a hawk on the hunt. Reyaan spoke to them warmly, calling them honoured guests, and Eddard remembered the word that he was a great spicer. An army of loyalists and sellswords protecting his Pentoshi rivals could not have pleased him.  _Every man here means to make us of us_ , Ned thought. None of these trader princes cared for the dead of the Seven Kingdoms, for the strife that may yet return to those shores.  
  
Eddard’s cup was still full but a servant offered to fill it nonetheless. The Stark politely declined, and grew irritated at the man’s insistence until he caught sight of the swallow-shaped silver brooch at his throat.  
  
“Perhaps this drink is not to your liking,” the servant said. “There are others, my lord, if you will allow me to bring you to them.”  
  
Ned nodded slowly, and followed the Braavosi into the maze of silk. Fluttering curtains confused his bearings, but he was certain they left the hall. The room where they arrived was smaller and richly pannelled, two great seats of oak set by a table. One was already filled by a man with a cup. The stranger was older than Eddard, his brown hair touched with white and his beard peppered with the same. He had sad eyes. His clothes were not rich or remarkable, barely of a better make than that of the cupbearers.  
  
“Sit, sunset lord,” the man softly said.  
  
The servant had already disappeared. Eddard sat, for lack of reason to do otherwise.  
  
“I know not how to call you,” the Stark said.  
  
“I was named a prince, once,” the older man said. “And kept the honour, though I fled the throne.”  
  
“The Tattered Prince,” Ned said.  
  
The Blackfish had spoken of him before, and they had all intended to send a rider to this man when they came to Essos.  
  
“The kindest of the names I have born,” the man smiled. “You are Eddard Stark, brother of the lord of very far away.”  
  
The Sealord had arranged this conversation, and arranged it away from prying eyes. There was meaning to this.  
  
“It was the Robert’s meaning that we speak with you, before marching on Pentos,” Ned said.  
  
“And here I am now,” the Tattered Prince said, “ready to receive this meaning. Your king would tickle the dragon and the city that shields him.”  
  
“Against Pentos we bear no grudge, save what it has earned by helping Rhaegar Targaryen,” Eddard said. “We have no hatred for your home.”  
  
“I do,” the sellsword said. “Or for the men that rule it, at least. Have you ever seen Pentos, Lord Stark? It has high walls and higher towers. It lacked an army once, but now a host grows in its shadow. It is no Tyrosh, but it will not fall easily to a pack of Westerosi.”  
  
“Every fortress falls, if men have the will,” Ned said gravely.  
  
“Aye, and perhaps you do,” the Tattered Prince mused. “But will your soldiers have the stomach for a storm? It will be bloody, I promise you that. Promises of plunder buy shallow courage.”  
  
“You would make an offer,” Eddard said bluntly. “I would hear it.”  
  
The older man laughed.  
  
“You Westerosi are simple souls,” he said. “It has a certain charm. I have friends in Pentos still, and my Windblown behind me. Together we could break your dragon king and take the city without a storm. I have gained  _permission_  for this, from certain men.”  
  
The Sealord, he meant. Braavos may share its hate of slavery with the Seven Kingdoms, but it did not want a Westerosi to rule on this side of the Narrow Sea. So it had found a prince of its own, and would wed his cause to Robert’s.  
  
“And what would this alliance demand of us?” he asked.  
  
“A prince needs a city, however tattered,” the older man said said. “And I will rule mine. Spoils will be shared and my friendship gained, so long as I am the Prince of Pentos.”  
  
The Tattered Prince smiled.  
  
“You will find me a most grateful friend, Eddard Stark,” he said.  
  
Ned did not reply. He thought, instead. Rhaegar Targaryen was the man they would cross the sea for. What did the rule of Pentos matter to him, or to Robert? Usurping magisters, however grasping, had never been their intent. The Sealord had been the man to make this conversation come, and behind him would stand the Iron Bank. The offer made here had longer strings and he might find the doors of the Iron Bank closed three days from now, if he refused. It stung that what was to be be justice meted out on a madman would be turned into a scheme such as this, but Ned no longer believed in bloodless victories. Even the rebellion had seen children murdered for Tywin Lannister’s ambitions, treachery and blood repaid with a daughter made queen.  
  
“I would have us be friends, then,” Eddard said gravely, and there was triumph in the other man’s eyes.  
  
“And so friends we shall be,” the Tattered Prince promised. “We will speak again, Lord Stark. Before you take your ship home. But for now you must return to the revel, lest your disappearance draw notice.”  
  
Years later Ned would wonder if he would have accepted still, had he known the madness that secret bargain would unleash. But he was a different man, then, and the answer did not matter as much as it would have when he was young.


	10. Chapter 10

Ned hadn’t drunk a drop, and still the maze of silk confounded him. That some of the things depicted by the shadows would have been better fit for a brothel than a feast did not help the matter. More than once he averted his gaze, ignoring gasps and sighs that were no mummer’s work. The Stark was steeling himself to call out to the shadow of a man with a sword when steps were heard, and he turned with barely-veiled relief. He if he made a fool of himself here, he shamed more than himself. It was a woman, he saw. Tall but not slender, for the cut of her dress revealed curves that were taut and proud. The dark-haired man flushed. Women did not wear such clothes in the North, or even south of the Neck. The purple and blue silks were married to an elegant necklace of gold and rubies that brought attention to the flesh displayed underneath, paler than a Summer Islander but browner than even the Dornish.  
  
“You seem lost, Lord Stark,” the woman smiled, and she was even lovelier when she did. “Or were you enjoying the sights?”  
  
“The maze has outwitted me,” Ned croaked, wishing his voice was steadier.  
  
He’d seen beauties to match this one, but few, and none who’d made conversation without prompting. In Harrenhal the eyes had been on other Starks.  _Tragedy took the best of Father’s children_ , he thought,  _leaving behind only the lesser and the young._  
  
“Morrogo does enjoy his complications,” the woman laughed throatily. “It is the canals, my lord. Their twists and turns leave their touch on the minds of Braavosi men.”  
  
Wit had never been his strength, and he had nothing to offer in return. It was toil not to stare at her hair, long dark locks tumbling down her back in shining waves. She looked like the kind of woman kingdoms were broken for. In the lamplight her eyes seemed pale purple, but it must have been a trick of the light. It was the Lyseni who boasted Valyrian looks, not the women of the Secret City.  
  
“I am shamed to say I do not know your name, my lady,” Ned said.  
  
“Lady Bellonara,” she said. “There are some who call me the Black Pearl, as they did my mother and her mother before her.”  
  
Even in the North they knew that tale. Aegon the Unworthy’s pirate paramour, whose daughter had taken to sighs instead of steel. There were few courtesans more famed than the women of that line. Eddard almost introduced himself, before remembering she had called him by his name already. The Black Pearl seemed to take his silence for impatience, and came closer.  
  
“I would not have a man of your station disappear forever in this labyrinth,” Lady Bellonara teased. “Shall we walk together?”  
  
Ned was not sure how he came to offer his arm, for it was not of his own doing, but her soft hand slid around his elbow and they began to wander.  
  
“You are more reserved than men say,” the Black Pearl said, guiding him through the paths without ever taking the lead.  
  
“I do not know what is said of me,” Ned admitted.  
  
“That you are one of the great captains of the sunset kingdoms,” she smiled. “That the king is as your brother, and that nigh an hour off your ship you duelled a bravo for the honour of a woman’s name.”  
  
“War is nothing to be proud of,” Eddard said quietly. “Would that I was done with it.”  
  
“But you fought the Nightingale’s champion in a woman’s name,” Lady Bellonara mused. “Has your heart been stolen, Lord Eddard? Many ladies of Braavos will sigh to hear of it. There has been much talk of the victorious warlords coming to our shores.”  
  
“I doubt she ever gave me much thought,” Ned admitted, more honestly than he’d wanted. “I am second son, and there were better matches to be had.”  
  
A boy’s fancy, he had called it, and it was the truth of it. Even before Brandon had sullied the dream he had known it for what it was. Eddard loved Winterfell, the crypts and the godswood and the rough beauty of the castle, but it would have been a poor home for a woman like Ashara Dayne.  
  
“Even second sons can rise, in Essos,” the Black Pearl smiled gently, and turned to less painful talk.  
  
How long they wandered in the silk, Ned could not be certain. Longer than it had taken him to be guided to the small room, but he did not find himself minding. He’d heard that courtesans were nothing like the women who traded flesh for coin in Westeros, but had not truly understood. Lady Bellonara was better spoken than any lady he’d ever met, well-read and with a clever wit that reddened his cheeks as often as it made him laugh.  _Surely a woman such as her could have wed_ , he thought. It was a struggle not to be charmed, and one he was losing. The Black Pearl asked him of the North, thinking it wonderful and strange and he found himself speaking of the barrows and wolfswood. Of the moving castle of House Reed and of the Wall, of which she had read in Lomas Longstrider’s famed books. They found the feasting hall again, eventually. Eddard had thought she would soon tire of him, but though she released his arm she did not do the same with his company.  
  
She asked to be introduced to Ser Gerion, who had already drunk a few cups and ceased japing at giggling ladies long enough to offer the Black Pearl extravagant compliments. Magisters took to visiting their little circle, offering gifts and honeyed words to Lady Bellonara. None left without a smile on their face, and all after being introduced to Ned. He was invited to boast of the battles won in the rebellion often, but his stilted answers were made up for by Ser Gerion’s silver tongue. Grand lies were offered with a smile, for Ned had never seen the Rock with his own eyes but doubted its walls were made entirely of gold. The smiling woman who stood close enough to trouble him but not enough to breach propriety laughed at his reluctance to drink, and wagered she would find a spirit to his liking before the end of the night. One small cup after another was pressed into Eddard’s hands by servants. Wines pale and crimson, liquors he had never even heard of that tasted of pears or apricots. He did not dare disappoint the smile, and so he drank. More than he should have. He’d never been this drunk save with Robert, and this was different company entirely.  
  
The night spread out like a hazy summer dream, and the moon was already high in the sky when Lady Bellonara suggested they take a stroll in the gardens. A woman who had been giving Ser Gerion warm look over her wine said she trembled at the beasts that were said to dwell in some of them, and must rely on his protection if she was to feel safe. The Lannister agreed with unduly haste. Ned attempted to beg off, for the hour was late and he felt the drink, but did not have the heart to refuse the Black Pearl when she turned her eyes to him. Lady Bellonara had offered him much kindness tonight, it would have been in poor taste to deny such a small thing. Dozens accompanied them in the cool night air, but without Ned ever noticing they were left behind. Bellonara’s arm was warm against his side, and if she was perhaps closer than a man and women unwed should be Eddard chose not to notice. It was all in his mind, he thought. What would a pearl want with a penniless northerner? He had nothing to his name but more war to come.  
  
“You seem in a better mood,” the lady observed. “Has Braavos grown on you, my lord?”  
  
“It has been a more pleasurable stay than I had thought,” Ned said. “Though I will leave before long.”  
  
“Duty,” the Black Pearl teased. “You speak of her so often I would think her your mistress.”  
  
“I meant no offence, my lady,” the Stark said, contrite. It was poor repayment to bore her so. “Truly. I-”  
  
“Peace, Eddard,” Bellonara smiled.  
  
Her fingers were on his chest, touch soft as a bird’s wings. She kissed him then, and he was weak for his hand found her waist and brought her close as he gave in. Her fingers remained on his neck when they parted, toying with his hair.  
  
“I would not have you return to your rooms on some sinking barge,” she said. “I have one of my own, with room for the both of us.”  
  
There was an offer there, and Ned knew it was his duty to refuse it. It would be dishonourable to accept, a shame on the Stark name.  _I will never return to Winterfell_ , he thought.  _I will never take a lady for wife or have a keep on my own_. Death was all that lay ahead of him, Rhaegar’s or his own. Still, he hesitated.  
  
“Ser Gerion,” he began, and she interrupted him with a finger on his lips.  
  
“Was speaking with Dellama Prestayn, the merriest widow in Braavos,” she laughed. “He will not be returning to his bed tonight.”  
  
It is a mistake, he thought as he kissed her again, but it was a sweet one. Honour could wait until dawn.


	11. Chapter 11

Ned woke to the sound of softly lapping waves. He’d slept the deep sleep of the exhausted, better rest than he had ever found in so warm a land. The sun was peeking through the coloured drapes that covered the windows, and the sheets over him were not the thin cotton of those of the House of Seven Lamps. The scented candles he faintly remembered from the night before had long gone out, but the fragrances remained. They did not quite cover the scent of his dishonour, he thought. He rose in the broad and soft bed where he had slumbered, acutely uncomfortable to find himself bare as a babe. His head ached, the way it always did after drinking, and so did his body. Though that last sting was as pleasurable as it was guilty. He heard an amused chuckle, and turned to see Bellonara watching him. The thin robe she wore hid nothing at all, her breasts and sex in the open as she washed her face with a water basin and a cloth. She was lounging gracefully, unashamed of her near-nakedness.  
  
“I have dishonoured you,” Ned said gravely.  
  
The Black Pearl laughed softly.  
  
“It is surprisingly charming,” she said, “that you truly believe that.”  
  
Eddard would have left the bed, but he could see no sign of his clothes. There were attendant ladies bustling outside of the ornate cabin, their faint footsteps padding the floor. Had they been there, the night before? Ned’s cheeks burned at the thought. Bellonara rose to sit herself at his side, washing his face and neck with the cool cloth.  
  
“I would wed you, if you would have me,” the Stark said, catching her hand.  
  
She studied him, unmoved.  
  
“You were a maid,” she said, “or close to it. This is not love, my dear Ned. It will pass.”  
  
Hearing her call him that, as he had asked she did, still brought a thrill. He did not deny what she had said. Only once had Elbert plied him with enough drink to bring him along with Robert to the brothel. There’d been more shame than pleasure from that, and he had never gone again after making certain no bastard would be born from his mistake.  
  
“And yet I would wed you,” he said.  
  
She lay her hand on his arm, setting aside the cloth.  
  
“The Black Pearl of Braavos does not wed,” she said, not unkindly.  
  
He would only be making a greater fool of himself by insisting when the lady had already declined.  
  
“Do not be grieved, my sweet,” she consoled. “I would have you remember me fondly. Call on me again, before you leave. Surely the Iron Bank will not lay claim to all your hours?”  
  
Ned hesitated, but he met her eyes and he was lost. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He looked for his clothes again, but they had seemingly vanished.  
  
“I wonder where they could have gone,” Bellonara smirked, having noticed. She had sharp eyes. “Perhaps I should return you to the streets naked, with my teeth marking you for all to see? That should teach the Nightingale her place.”  
  
“I am at your mercy,” Eddard said, almost amused.  
  
“Words any woman delights in hearing,” she smiled, hand trailing down his stomach until she seized him.  
  
Ned’s breathing grew rough. It would have been a lie to say he did not want her still. Was that how men ruined themselves? By letting the pleasure conquer their sense?  
  
“Lie back,” Bellonara murmured. “I am not yet done with you. Let us see if I can bring out the wolf in you again, yes?”  
  
A better man would have refused. Ned did not.  
  
\--  
  
Ser Gerion was irritatingly smug and companionable when Eddard returned to the Seven Lamps, not long before noon. There was much clapping of the back, which Ned did not particularly enjoy even from Robert.  
  
“She was no Black Pearl, but she was flexible as a dancer half her age,” the Lannister said, speaking of the lady he had spent the night with.  
  
The Stark eyed him dourly, but there was no smothering the other man’s mood. It was only later that evening, after Ser Gerion had failed to convince him to seek out a playhouse, that the man took him aside and turned serious.  
  
“It is no chance, you must know, that we found beds so easily,” the Lannister said.  
  
Ned did not speak, only frowning.  
  
“The most flexible widow Prestayn enjoyed pillow-talk,” Ser Gerion told him. “And airily wondered what was meant to happen to our host, after the fall of Pentos.”  
  
“Lady Bellonara asked me no such thing,” Eddard said.  
  
The blonde man sighed.  
  
“Yet I wager she invited you to return,” the Lannister said. “Men rich as princes can go a lifetime without earning a courtesan’s favour twice, Eddard. If we truly cross the Narrow Sea with five thousand men, as Robert swore, then that host will be the largest company in Essos save for the Golden Company itself. Even the Sealord must keep an eye on it.”  
  
In truth Ned had not given much thought to what would happen, after Pentos. Victory was not assured, even with the assistance of the Tattered Prince. Ser Gerion had been glad to hear of that, earlier, and praised Eddard for making the pact. Most of the men would return to the Seven Kingdoms, he believed.  _But not I_ , he thought. King Stannis would not want his brother who should have worn the crown haunting King’s Landing, and there was no lordship or hearth awaiting Ned in the North. In Essos they would remain. The bridges had been burned. He would have to speak with Robert, when he returned to King’s Landing. Neither of them had considered beyond the death of Rhaegar Targaryen.  
  
“They say not even the Sealord can command courtesans,” Ned said.  
  
“Their barges sail his canals. They stand behind his peace and spend the coin he mints,” Ser Gerion said. “No matter the name he is a king, and the will of kings is not easily ignored.”  
  
The Stark remained silent. It had the ring of truth, and an ugly one.  
  
“A man court ruins, when he lets a cunt rule him,” the Lannister said darkly. “I disagree with my brother on many things, but not that. Take care, Eddard.”  
  
He avoided Ser Gerion for the rest of the evening, and much of the following day. His hours he spent considering days that might not come. If Pentos fell. If men remained. So many maybes, but a course must be charted. Robert had always relied on him to be the voice of caution, but what caution could be found here? Sellswords were faithless, dishonourable. He had been taught this from the cradle. Men who fought for coin could not be trusted. It was a bitter thing to admit that the only trade Eddard truly knew was war, though to think of it as a trade sat ill with him. Perhaps they could buy land with the spoils from Pentos, spend their days as petty lords in thrall to an eastern ruler. But Robert would not have it, he knew, and Ned did not relish the thought of swearing oaths to some merchant prince. He spoke to Gerion again, for the man had only meant to help and Ned had come to trust in his council. The Lannister had many notions, some grand and others more grounded.  
  
“I meant to sail for Valyria,” Ser Gerion said. “To find Brightroar again and restore it to my house. But I’ve found a taste for travelling again. Yi Ti, perhaps. I’ve never seen an emperor before.”  
  
“I am glad you chose to join us instead of risking the Doom,” Ned said.  
  
“Tywin needed some he trusted to make sure my nephew doesn’t get himself killed,” the Lannister said. “I gained a ship for it, and more gold than I’d believed he was willing to part with.”  
  
“Ser Jaime will be with us for seven years,” Eddard said, not naming him Kingslayer out of respect for the other man. “Lord Tywin would mislike his son turning sellsword, I think.”  
  
“The Red Viper captained a company, once,” Gerion said. “Though he was better at killing than keeping ledgers, and his brother had to settle his debts. You would not be the first highborn to sell your swords.”  
  
Oberyn Martell also had a brood of bastards and stood a known poisoner. The comparison was not a pleasant one. The matter was set aside, though, when the Iron Bank sent a man to fetch them on the third day. They must first win the war, if they wanted to have days after it.


	12. Chapter 12

There were only five men in the room. Green marble floors surrounded by broad glass windows and heavy stone. The benches Ned and Ser Gerion were given lay closer to the ground than the ornate seats on the other side of the table. The Lannister stood a head taller than anyone else here, but men would not think so looking in. Only four of them were seated. Sealord Ferrego Antaryon, a greying man that Eddard would have taken for a ship’s captain if not for the rich clothes he wore, had claimed a seat without a word and studied them all the while. Noho Dimittis, keyholder of the Iron Bank, had been the one to make courtesies. Behind the Sealord stood his First Sword, lean and hard of frame like old rope. Eddard had brought his ledger, though he’d not needed to open it. He knew the numbers in it well, the mouths in need of feeding and the hands in need of steel. He’d expected to bargain over coin and promises, but the men in front of him had other notions.  
  
“We wonder,” Dimittis said in a reedy voice, “what is your king’s intent for the Targaryens should Pentos fall.”  
  
Ned was careful not to frown. He had come to Braavos to seek a loan, not be told how to fight a war by bankers and foreign lords.  
  
“Rhaegar Targaryen will be made to account for his crimes,” the Stark said. “Queen Rhaella will be returned to King’s Landing and her son with her, to the hands of Stannis Baratheon.”  
  
“And the children?” the Sealord asked.  
  
His voice was soft, his eyes anything but. Ned had once heard that knives came out in Braavos, when the time came for a Sealord to be chosen. Ferrego Antaryon looked a man who did not flinch from using a blade for the sake of ambition.  
  
“Children,” Ser Gerion repeated. “Has the queen given birth, then?”  
  
“A daughter,” the Sealord said. “Named Daenerys. Betrothed from the cradle to Prince Jaehaerys.”  
  
The Lannister laughed harshly.  
  
“So much for buying Mace Tyrell’s loyalty,” he said. “The dragons are all mad, Rhaegar as much as his father.”  
  
“We remember dragons, in Braavos,” Dimittis said. “We do not laugh of them.”  
  
“Neither do we,” Ned said somberly. “I will raise my sister’s son. Lady Daenerys can join her mother and brother in King’s Landing.”  
  
“Children grow,” the Sealord said. “Claims remain. A younger brother on a throne might look east in time, and worry of a boy surrounded by swords.”  
  
“My nephew is a Stark,” Eddard said coldly. “We have only ever claimed one throne, and it was not forged of swords.”  
  
“Of course,” Antaryon said, unsmiling. “A small matter, of little import to Braavos.”  
  
Ned thought of three bodies on a red cloak and his fingers tightened. Not again, never again. Not Lyanna’s son. A son should not be judged for the sins of a father.  
  
“We were pleased to hear terms were reached with the Windblown,” Dimittis said. “The Iron Bank appreciates foresight in its debtors.”  
  
What followed was tedious but fruitful. The gold was loaned with ships to carry it. The interest was harsh, but not unbearable and near what Jon Arryn had warned him to expect. It was made clear by the keyholder that the Bank expected the spoils from Pentos to be used to repay the loan at least in part, to which Ned had no opposition. Assurances were made that Robert would not attempt to seize Pentos from the Tattered Prince, or intervene in its rule after the sellsword captain was crowned. No slaves would be taken, no Braavosi property seized. Eddard signed the parchments and left the Iron Bank rich as a king, though the wealth was not his to keep. They would leave with the morning tide, Gerion told him, as soon as the carracks provided by the Iron Bank were readied. The Lannister disappeared afterwards, only smirking when Ned asked after his destination. The widow, then. The Stark had found a perfumed invitation waiting for him in his room when returning from the Bank, and knew what lay within without needing to break the seal.  
  
He had not forgotten the Lannister’s words, or the ring of truth they had to them. Was he being made a fool of? He could not know without going, and most of all he wanted to. It had been little more than a day and already he missed Bellonara’s embrace, her smile and her wry humour. It was not love, perhaps, but a fainter cousin. He left when the sun began to dip, back to the Black Pearl’s bed.  
  
\--  
  
“I may miss you, when you leave,” she told him after.  
  
The barge floated lazily down the canal, smooth but ever-moving. She had poured them drink in a single silver cup, sharing the pear liquor he had most enjoyed at the feast. She must have noticed. Even after what they had done it felt intimate to drink from the same rim.  
  
“I might not return,” Ned said. “It will be not be a war like the last.”  
  
It would not be all the bannermen of Winterfell and the Eyrie that set sail, Hoster Tully’s rivermen and Robert’s warlike stormlords. It would be foot from a hundred towns and castles, hedge knights and lesser lords and whoever had rallied to the call. Without Robert there would be no keeping such men under one banner, no matter the cause or the plunder. It might not be enough. Rhaegar’s host was Crownlands exiles and sellswords, true, but they had walls and a great fleet. For all that men now called the Silver Prince craven, having fled east for fear of meeting the victor of the Trident in battle, Ned remembered Harrenhal. There had been no knight his equal in the lists, on that cursed day. Madness and desperation made a dangerous brew. The Blackfyres had proved that often enough, and they’d had less to their name than Rhaegar now did.  
  
“You will return,” she said imperiously. “A victorious warrior, name echoing in the ear of all Valyria’s daughters, trueborn and bastard both.”  
  
“And will you see me then?” Ned asked, more seriously than he’d meant.  
  
He’d not wanted to ask the question, for the answer might not be to his liking. Better the summer dream stay that, and not be marred by the truth of things. Eddard did know no much of courtesans but he knew they did not grant their favour to powerless men, no matter how old the name of their house.  
  
“A great captain commands respect, even in Braavos,” Bellonara said, languidly stretching her naked body over the sheets.  
  
The sight had him spellbound, but not so much he did not hear her words.  
  
“It will not be my decision to make,” Ned said.  
  
“The way you speak of your king, he takes your advice to heart,” she said.  
  
He felt calm, and it surprised him. Grey eyes studied the Black Pearl of Braavos until she frowned at him.  
  
“Did the Sealord ask this of you?” he asked before she could speak.  
  
“Ferrego Antaryon does not choose who I take to bed,” she said.  
  
He remained silent.  
  
“It was at his prompting I attended the feast,” Bellonara sighed. “To ensure neither wolf nor lion offended a magister after a few cups. Everything else was my own will, Ned.”  
  
He wanted to believe. He did, if only a little, but it did not matter.  _Every dream ends_ , he thought. Had she chosen him because he knew less of the things between men and women than Ser Gerion? No, it would do no good to let his thoughts turn bitter. It had been a pleasant dream, and now Eddard was returning to his duty. It was time to wake. He kissed her goodbye, later, but spoke of the war no more. The  _Laughing Lion_  set sail for King’s Landing the morning after, with another three carracks with hulls full of gold. The journey was swifter back than in coming, but not swift enough.  
  
The war had begun without them.


	13. Chapter 13

“There are fewer ships than there should be,” Ser Gerion said.  
  
Masts filled the port of King’s Landing like a forest, but the Lannister spoke true. Paxter Redwyne was said own two hundred warships and these were not numbers Ned counted. Over a hundred, perhaps, but not many more. Some of them were damaged.  _They gave battle_ , the Stark thought. It could not have been near the capital, Rhaegar was not so bold, but Lord Redwyne’s journey had not been without contest. The king, for Robert was still that, awaited them at the docks. His raucous laughter sounded like a horn, and even Gerion earned an accolade for the success of their journey. Ned’s foster-brother was eager enough to speak of what had happened to the Redwyne fleet, and told them as they headed for the Red Keep.  
  
“Monford Velaryon tried to catch them in the Stepstones,” Robert said. “And he catch them he did, for all the fortune it brought him.”  
  
“Lord Redwyne defeated the royal fleet, then,” Eddard said.  
  
“Paxter says he was whipping them, but his captains stay quiet,” the king laughed. “No, Ned the bastards were caught by a storm. The Redwynes lost more boats to shipwreck than the dragon’s fleet.”  
  
“That is dire news,” the Stark said, and frowned.  
  
“Story’s not over,” Robert grinned. “See, Paxter rallied his boys at Estermont. He had a port to take refuge in. Velaryon’s, though, they spread all over the Stepstones. Easy meat for the plate, and the pirates were hungry.”  
  
“They were attacked,” Ned said.  
  
“Pretty little ships like that, all split up? They lost scores and tens,” the king said. “Some Lyseni whoreson called Salladhor Saan captured almost a third of Velaryon’s fleet, piecemeal over a sennight. Calls himself Prince of the Narrow Sea now.”  
  
“He will be a scourge on trade,” Eddard said, grim.  
  
“Let Stannis deal with it,” Robert dismissed. “He’ll get his crown, though to hear him you’d think I’d pissed in his porridge instead of making him king.”  
  
“Have you, Your Grace?” Ser Gerion drawled. “Pissed in his porridge?”  
  
The Baratheon guffawed.  
  
“I might, if he keeps whinging about Renly,” Robert said. “I’m glad you’re back, Ned. The Blackfish has been keeping the men busy, but they need a good battle to put them to rights. I’ll not linger in this stinking shithole a day longer than I must.”  
  
“It does have a pungent aroma,” the Lannister agreed. “At least the whores wash.”  
  
“We mustn't talk of whores, Lannister,” Robert chuckled. “Ned will glare at us, and I’ll not get him started early on that.”  
  
“You might be surprised,” Ser Gerion slyly said.  
  
Robert’s eyes widened and he let out a startled laugh. Ned gritted his teeth.  
  
“Ned,” he grinned. “Have you finally stayed south long enough for your cock to shake off the ice? She must have been a beauty, to beat honour out of your bed.”  
  
Eddard made clear he would not speak of it, but Ser Gerion turned his cloak with glee. Robert simply would not cease talking when he was told it was the Black Pearl who had been the object of his affection, and Ned made his excuses when they reached the Red Keep to escape the bawdy japes that followed. Jon Arryn received him, ruefully admitting he was glad to escape his correspondence for an hour. Prince Stannis, the Stark learned, had reluctantly offered him the office of Hand of the King. Robert’s younger brother was to be wed a month from now, and Lord Tywin had put forward the coin to make it a grand affair.  
  
“A wedding will do good for the realm,” Jon said. “Mace Tyrell cannot resist a feast and a tourney, though Prince Doran and your brother begged off for their health.”  
  
“Will he be sending his brother?” Ned asked. “Benjen is too young to go south, but Oberyn Martell is a man grown.”  
  
“The Red Viper is gone,” Jon Arryn grimaced. “I did not see him in Dorne and thought Doran was keeping him in a far keep where he could make no trouble, but I now hear word he sailed for Essos.”  
  
“Not to join the Targaryens, surely,” Eddard said. “Lannisters murdered Princess Elia, but Rhaegar shamed and abandoned her. He named Lyanna’s babe a prince, and calls him trueborn.”  
  
Perhaps there had been a wedding before a heart tree, as the tale was told, but such a thing would have been false by nature. The faith of the First Men did not keep to the many rules of the Seven, but polygamy was no less a crime in the eyes of the Old Gods. Ned’s nephew was a bastard in the eyes of the Old Gods and the New, no matter what lies the Silver Prince told himself and others as well.  
  
“Wherever he is, he is too far to call Dorne to rebellion,” Jon said. “Watch for him in Pentos, Ned. No one keeps grudges as hard as the Dornish, and poison is in the man’s nature.”  
  
The Seven Kingdoms would be in good hands, Eddard thought as he left. There was no better man alive than the Lord of the Eyrie, and Stannis would be a dutiful king. There would be bad blood with the Tyrells, but the House Tyrell did not have as firm a grip on the Reach as it once had. There were Florent men in the host, Robert told him as they dined. Ashfords and Caswells too, and Lord Orten Merryweather had been so grateful to have his exile revoked and his lordship returned to him that he’d pledged more than half his men until the Targaryens were all dead. Ned’s northmen were restless, and eager for war. They had not enjoyed remaining south in tents while Eddard sailed to Braavos. The news that the Iron Bank had granted a loan was greeted with cheers in the hall, and even Prince Stannis raised his cup. More for gladness to see them all gone than to wish them well, Ned thought. That evening they called a council with the greatest lords of their host, in the Small Council rooms.  
  
Lord Paxter Redwyne was stooped and thin, his orange hair already thinning and his beard failing to make up the difference. He was well-spoken, and his advice cautious. Ser Brynden drank as much as Robert did, seemingly younger than when Ned had left. War suited him well, even in the planning. As for Eddard’s foster-brother, he was in fine form. The dark moods that had plagued him since Lyanna’s death had been driven back, for now, and it was the same man who’d fought three battles and Summerhall in a day and seen all the lords rebelling against him kneel at the end he was seeing sitting at the table and drawing smiles out of the lord of the Arbor.  
  
“We must set sail soon,” Eddard told them. “We’ve the coffers for a campaign, but not a long one.”  
  
“Some of my fleet still need repair, but the king has been generous in sending carpenters,” Lord Paxter said. “A fortnight is needed, perhaps less.”  
  
“And we’ll have enough ships for the whole Dragonhunt?” Robert asked.  
  
Ned’s brow rose, for he had never before heard the name.  
  
“A more cautious name than the King’s Men,” the Blackfish told him. “I didn’t beat that one out of the boys, and they took that as a pat on the back.”  
  
“Like the Vulture Hunt of old,” Lord Paxter said. “Lord Tarly will gnash his teeth for having missed it.”  
  
He seemed rather pleased at the thought.  
  
“It will be enough, Your Grace,” the lord of the Arbor said. “Though quarters will be tight, and some man and horses may take sick.”  
  
“There’s pox in every camp,” Robert said. “A hard march will end the puking. How close to the citys can the fleet take us without getting what’s left of Velaryon up in arms?”  
  
“The easiest shoreline is of a height with the middle of the Velvet Hills,” the king’s goodbrother-to-be said. “If they do not await us already, it will do.”  
  
“Month’s march to Pentos?” Robert grunted, looking at the map.  
  
“More,” Ser Brynden disagreed. “No good roads this close to the coast. There’s a dragonroad from the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe to the city, but it comes straight from the east.”  
  
Over four thousand men in whole, Ned thought, set to march through the old lands of Andalos.  
  
“I spoke to the Tattered Prince before leaving Braavos,” Eddard said. “The Windblown were heading up the Little Rhoyne, and are to join us before we siege Pentos.”  
  
“A sellsword captain,” Lord Redwyne said with distaste. “He may turn on us, for the right price. Better we take the city without him.”  
  
“The sellsword has men in the city to open the gates,” Robert said. “I’ll kiss the damned rogue myself, should he delivers us Rhaegar without need to storm those walls.”  
  
A fortnight, then. Eddard would have little sleep if he was to gather the supplies in time, but where there was coin there were always willing men. The granaries of the Reach were yet filled to the brim.  
  
“We would leave before your brother’s wedding,” Ned told his foster-brother.  
  
“He’ll figure out where to put his cock eventually,” Robert said. “May take him a few years, but he’s an obstinate man. We sail, Ned. The bloody thing is called the Dragonhunt, let's hunt us some fucking dragons.”


	14. Chapter 14

Men made plans, the gods laughed. The fleet had left King’s Landing proudly, banners trailing in the wind, but pride was no shield against a storm. Ned had known only fear and waves tall as a man riding, the sea turned dark and unforgiving. Horses had gone mad, panicked at the roiling, and more than a few sailors had fallen overboard. The captain had screamed himself hoarse until all soldiers went into the haul, packed tight with the stench of piss and vomit. When dawn broke Eddard learned they would live, though the ship was taking water. They would need to beach and soon, lest they sink. Grey-faced, the Stark watched the shores of Andalos in the far distance from the deck. The sea had claimed most corpses, but a handful wrapped in cloaks were rotting under the sun.  _Defeated before we ever reached Essos_ , he thought. Rhaegar’s luck had turned.  
  
Of the rest of the fleet, they saw little. The captain intimated they might be scattered all over the coast, and the least fortunate already at the bottom of the sea. They found another nine ships on their way to the shore, most of them northern save for one of the Grafton carracks filled with valemen. None of them held supplies, and Eddard ordered them all to make for land. Hunting would not feed a few hundred warriors for long, but neither would what little the ships carried. Better to send the captains that could still sail to span the coast, in search of other survivors. By noon they’d found a beach large enough for them all, by green hills that hid it from sight. The haggard soldiers that stumbled out of the ships numbered near six hundred, and a hundred horse among them. Arnulf Karstark commanded most, though Leobald Tallhart near as much and Lyn Corbray was taken as leader by the valemen by virtue of both birth and the Valyrian blade he carried.  
  
Ned had heard the valeman had slain a wounded Lewyn Martell at the Trident. There was no glory in finishing off a bloodied man, but Corbray boasted of the deed nonetheless. To the Stark’s relief Howland Reed was of the throng, though he’d lost many crannogmen to the waves. When Eddard called for council they all came, and none thought to gainsay him. It was still strange to him, that men his elder would take his orders without complaint. In this host he was second only to Robert, though Ser Brynden oft gave advice and he would have been a fool not take it.  
  
“We must look for water,” Ned said. “The barrels we have with us will not last for long, and I mean to send away what ships we can.”  
  
Arnulf Karstark argued they should strip the boats bare of anything useful, but Ned spoke otherwise. Enough would be left for the smaller crews to sail for a sennight, at least. Salvation would come in the form of the rest of the fleet, if it came at all. Howland offered to search for springs with his crannogmen, and seemed assured he would find sweet water for them all though he would not speak of the manner he would find it. Ser Lyn japed of frogs and ponds, turning sullen when no northerner smiled. The northern lords had fought with Howland and his men, and though the queerness of Greywater Watch’s warriors was still spoken of there was respect as well. The valeman had fought for the Targaryens, at Gulltown, and Jon Arryn’s pardon had not wiped away that black mark.  
  
“I would have our riders take the lay of the land,” Leobald Tallhart said. “Pentos could be but days away and we would have no notion of it.”  
  
Ned agreed, after hesitating. Even if they found nothing, it would do the horses and men both some good to spread their legs after the journey at sea. The Stark left Arnulf Karstark to command the men in his absence, with orders to set the tents and tally the supplies. A hundred riders rode up the hills in good order, Eddard leading them himself with Tallhart and Corbray at his side. To the north hills spread as far as the eye could see, but to the south the grounds ran flat after what must be a day’s march. Further beyond that, Ned knew, would lay Pentos. They had not been blown so far off course a way could not be found. The Stark worried of the rest of the host, for bringing it back together in such hilly lands would be no easy task. At Leobald’s suggestion they rode north, to see if others had made it to the shore. Fruitless hours passed, save for the find of a small stream nestled between stones where they let the horses and men slake their thirst. Ned bade himself to remember it, though it was too small and shallow for all his host to live off it.  
  
Even their fewer numbers saw to it there was little more than mud left. The Stark sent outriders away while the other men rested for a while, and was thinking of beginning the ride back to camp when they returned. The pair that had gone north had found trouble, they said. A score of armed men, sellswords by the look of them.  
  
“They had men in chains,” the outrider said. “Stripped bare. Some of the sellswords wore cloaks of red.”  
  
 _Lannister red_ , Ned thought. Like the men Lord Tywin had sent. They rode north, hard. There was no hiding the fracas of a hundred horses at a gallop, and an hour past when they found the sellswords the men were hiding inside an old stone fort atop a hill. A mere score, as the outrider had said. Corbray urged for slaughter, but Eddard would have none of it. Better to take prisoners. They surrounded the ancient stones and before long a sellsword came down the hill, sword still in sheath. The Stark rode out to meet him, alone. The other man had brown skin, a broken nose and strange almond-shaped eyes. He seemed calm, and introduced himself as the captain Ben Plumm, of the Second Sons.  
  
“We have no quarrel with you, my friend,” Plumm smiled. “Let us both be on our way, yes? You do not look to me like brigands.”  
  
“You hold prisoners,” Ned said. “Lannister men.”  
  
“We have only escaped slaves,” the sellsword lied. “I have never heard this name you speak of.”  
  
“Your men were seen wearing red cloaks,” Eddard said.  
  
Plumm cursed.  
  
“I told them,” he said. “That pretty cloaks are not worth the trouble. Only living men enjoy spoils.”  
  
“I would not have slaughter today,” Ned said. “Surrender your men to me.”  
  
“If your riders chance the hill, they will have only corpses to save,” the sellsword said.  
  
“You would not long outlive them,” Eddard replied. “Surrender and I give you my word you and your men will be treated fairly.”  
  
“Words are not worth much, to a man of my trade,” Plumm said.  
  
“I am not a sellsword,” Ned said stiffly. “I am a Stark of Winterfell. I honour my promises.”  
  
“There is a Stark, on the old rolls of the company,” the sellsword said. “Rodrik Stark, I believe he was called.”  
  
“My mother’s father,” Eddard said.  
  
“Ah, you are family then. How pleasant to meet even such distant kin,” Ben Plumm smiled charmingly. “I have your promise of good treatment, yes? My men will not hear talk of surrender otherwise. Water and bread and no beatings.”  
  
The Stark nodded silently. The sellswords conferred among themselves, then argued. Two corpses later, an unruffled Plumm grandly tossed his sheathed blade before Eddard’s horse. His men followed him in this. There were only three prisoners with them, men of the Rock one and all. There’d been a fourth, they said, but he had tried to run. One of the sellswords to surrender had put a knife in his back and left him to bleed out naked in the hills. The Lannister soldiers were given back their clothes and armament, and news were sought.  
  
“We found no other ship, my lord,” the westerman said. “Ser Jaime took some of us into the hills, but the sellswords ambushed us.”  
  
The man seemed hesitant to speak of the matter, and Plumm’s words gave explanation why. These men had fled from the field when defeat loomed, and the sellswords now captured had been sent off in pursuit.  
  
“Are the Second Sons in Rhaegar’s pay?” Ned asked the mercenary captain.  
  
Ben Plumm spoke freely and without qualms, his cloak turned in full now that he’d been made prisoner.  
  
“Ah, would that we were,” Plumm said, chagrined. “Alas, the Titan’s Bastard has earned us a darkened name. He has been too eager to sell our swords twice over, and no magister wants a company that will turn to the enemy’s employ for the right price.”  
  
“Then why assault the Lannisters?” Eddard asked. “What does our war concern you?”  
  
“Even in Pentos they have heard of the lion that slew a king,” Plumm said. “Though the Targaryen king disdains us now, Mero said, he would sing a different song if we came with his father’s killer in chains.”  
  
Mero was the commander of the company, it seemed, called the Titan’s Bastard for he had been born in Braavos. Ben Plumm had few pleasant things to say of him, and many harsh ones. The Second Sons were finding it difficult to find a patron in the Free Cities, these days, as they were as dangerous to the men that bought them than to the men they were sworn to battle. There had been talk of journeying to Slaver’s Bay, but Mero had decided upon becoming the dragon king’s man instead. In his cups, he spoke of trading a Kingslayer for a lordship in the Seven Kingdoms.  
  
“You have Ser Jaime prisoner, then,” Ned said.  
  
“And a dozen of his men with him,” Plumm said. “The rest were slain.”  
  
The Second Sons had numbered five hundred before their ambush, but had taken losses there. The Kingslayer himself had killed a dozen before being beaten unconscious, Plumm said. Mero had promised his men to brand him for it. The westermen said there were still Lannister soldiers remaining with the ship, whose mast had been broken in the storm. Only a score, though there would be sailors as well. Eddard sent riders there with one of the deserters, who he refrained from passing judgement on. The Lannisters would deal with their own. Taking the prisoners back to camp, the dark-haired man asked Plumm of where the Second Sons had made camp and thought long.  
  
Perhaps they would not go hungry, after all.


	15. Chapter 15

There was only one knight among the remaining Lannister men, Ser Damon Lannister, and he was without a mount. He’d given his to Ser Jaime after the Kingslayer’s had to be put down during the storm. A mere twenty foot joined the the host, but every man would be needed if Ned was to give battle to the sellswords. The Second Sons they had brought back to camp not long before nightfall were fettered with their own chains, but Eddard kept his word. They were given gruel and water, left untouched by his own men. Ser Damon was Tywin’s goodbrother, and though he had the Lannister looks his hair was thinning and his beard like a green boy’s. As a courtesy Ned gave him seat at the council, and swiftly came to regret it. The Lannister was proud and did not take well to Lyn Corbray’s cutting japes about having misplaced his sister’s son.  
  
“Peace,” Ned said. “This is no time for bickering.”  
  
“We must march to free my nephew,” Ser Damon said. “Now, before the sellswords flee.”  
  
Ben Plumm had placed the sellsword camp a day’s march from where they now stood, nestled between lush hills and split by a stream.  
  
“You hold no sway here, Lannister,” Arnulf Karstark grunted. “Mind your tongue.”  
  
“I’ll not trade the Kingslayer’s life for any of my men’s,” Leobald Tallhart said. “Oathbreakers come to dark ends.”  
  
“The Seconds Sons would know much of what goes on in Pentos,” Howland Reed said quietly. “Rhaegar could be marching as we speak, with all his sellswords and exiles.”  
  
The lord of Greywater Watch had been as good as his word. He’d found an old well near what might have once been a village, in Andal days. The water tasted queerly, but there had been no lack of it.  
  
“All the more reason to leave the Second Sons alone,” Lyn Corbray said. “Or are we to bloody what few men we have before Rhaegar finds us?”  
  
“It is not the Targaryens I fear,” Ned said, and the men went silent. “Lord Arnulf, you have tallied our supplies. How long will they last us?”  
  
“A sennight, if the men grow lean,” the northerner said. “Long enough for the fleet to find us, or us it.”  
  
“If there is still a fleet,” Eddard said. “Our fortune has been frail of late. I would not wager our lives on blind hope.”  
  
“What else do we have?” Tallhart said.  
  
“He means to seize the supplies of the Second Sons,” Ser Lyn said, watching Ned with sharp eyes.  
  
“They will know of any villages where we can trade for more, as well,” Eddard said. “They may even have maps. Having them would ease the burden of finding Robert.”  
  
That his foster-brother might have been taken by the waves, he said nothing. It was a silent worry that gnawed at him every hour, never far from his thoughts.  _Let it not be so_ , he thought. _If there is any justice at all, I will not lose a brother to avenge a sister._  But justice was Ice, was grim judgement and Winterfell most of all. These shores knew nothing of it. Enough were swayed by his words there was no true protest when he ordered to prepare for a march on the morrow. Plumm was brought before him, and offered to lead the host to the Second Sons before Ned could even ask.  
  
“I ask only that you accept surrender, if offered,” the sellsword said. “Let not a company as old as the Second Sons die under the Titan’s Bastard. I may even turn them to your cause, should you give me leave.”  
  
Eddard agreed not to deny surrender, though of the other matter he said nothing. Men who turned their cloaks so easily could not be trusted not to turn it again. There may be hard fighting ahead, and a man like Ben Plumm might remember his commander’s fancy of a lordship granted by Rhaegar. Dining on salted pork and well water, the Stark retired to his tent. The night was warm and his sleep troubled, but Ned rose with dawn nonetheless and gathered the host with him. These were not good lands for marching, he learned as he followed the sellsword guide. Every hill could be hiding an ambush in its shadow, and the paths through them were better fit for goats than men.  
  
Plumm took them around a village he said held the Second Sons had pillaged a moon past, wasting hours to avoid the risk of loose tongues. Eddard intended for surprise to carry the day, as it had at the Battle of the Bells. Outriders were bid to keep themselves out of sight but to keep an eye for the sellsword company. The turncloak captain said they would not leave until his men had returned, but the Stark would not take him at his word for it. For all that Ben Plumm called himself captain, he had been sent to pursue deserters. That was not the mark of a man in favour with his commander.  
  
“An hour’s march from here, to the north,” Plumm claimed.  
  
Ned had ordered the host to remain beneath the ridges, and so could not see the camp the sellsword assured him lay ahead. The outriders had seen tracks that put some truth to the man’s words. The sun was turning the sky crimson as it descended, night not long to come. Howland proposed to wait until sundown to push forward, but Eddard decided against it. These were not paths he would be glad to have a host take in the dark. Command of the foot he gave to Arnulf Karstark, taking the horse himself. Taking it to the west to circle around, Ned remained hidden behind the slopes. The ride was longer for it, but it was worth the delay. The Second Sons had only foot, and foot caught unprepared by riders shattered more oft than not. Horns sounded in the distance as the Second Sons found the host coming for them, calling the sellswords to battle. It was too early, Ned thought. Sentinels must have caught sight of the army. Some men urged him to abandon discretion, but the Stark held fast.  
  
“Better we catch them flatfooted,” Ser Corbray approved. “We can afford to lose more foot than horse.”  
  
It was a harsh truth to speak, but a truth nonetheless. Eddard did not reply, spurring his horse on. The clash of arms grew closer until it was veiled by only a hill, and he judged it to be enough. The Stark unsheathed his sword, and a chorus of steel baring followed. The rose up the hill a trot, and beneath them the battle spanned the hills. The Second Sons had not been ready for war, he saw. Though hard fighting could be found where the Hornwood and Tallhart men under Leobald had come down the slope, there were many sellswords still putting on their armour amongst the tents. Ned spared no battle cry. His sword rose and his mount took to a gallop, charging down the hill into the unprepared Second Sons. Like a torrent they swept through the tents, swords growing slick with blood and screaming sellswords trampled under hooves. Cries of alarm sounded from where the foot was fighting, the sight of horse appearing at their flank a thing of horror.  
  
Sellswords were not brave men. They broke, and broke swiftly. Some threw away their swords and surrendered, more fled into the hills. Ned had to scream himself hoarse to see to it no tents were set aflame, for though he had given the order already the blood of the men was up. The foot spilled into the camp of the Second Sons, and Eddard’s riders met it. Further ugliness awaited them. From a tent of silk a giant of a man emerged, bushy red beard specked with blood under pale green eyes. He held a sword to the throat of a man that Ned almost did not recognize. Jaime Lannister had been beaten harshly, his bare chest bruised and full of cuts. Bloody marks had been carved on his cheeks, knifework that had yet to heal. He looked barely able to stand, his hands shackled and his feet bare.  
  
“Enough of that,” the large man called out in bastard Valyrian. “Come for me and the boy smiles through his throat.”  
  
Eddard spurred his horse closer, though he remained at a distance. He would not see a hostage killed for his recklessness.  
  
“Mero of the Second Sons,” Ned said. “The battle is lost. Surrender.”  
  
“I think not,” the Titan’s Bastard laughed. “You will give me a horse and I will ride away, unless you want your Kingslayer slain.”  
  
Ser Jaime’s lips moved in a murmur. The sellsword leaned closer to hear, and that was when the Lannister struck. Catching Mero’s wrist with his shackled hands, he began a struggle that saw them both fall to the ground. Eddard rode in haste, but he was too far. The blade scored a deep gash into the Kingslayer’s shoulder before the Lannister knocked it out of the sellswords hand’s. The man was large, and thickly muscled. He still screamed, when the shackles broke his nose. Ser Jaime went crazed, screaming hoarsely as he smashed his fists into the man’s face again and again. The Titan’s Bastard struggled, but the chain between the shackled wrapped around his neck and choked the life out of him as the Kingslayer howled in triumph. Ned reined in his horse, standing over the corpse and the Lannister. He saw the marks on the cheeks clear, now. Twin lions, roughly hewn but recognizable. The Kinsglayer looked up at him, panting.  
  
“Lord Stark,” he said. “We really must stop meeting like this.”


	16. Chapter 16

The Second Sons had been well-supplied. Ned found it strange, for Ben Plumm had confessed the company had had precious little employment of late, but a few prisoners were roused to give answer. What Eddard learned earned his contempt, though not his surprise. The sellswords had sacked a score of villages on their way north, seizing granaries and women. Few smallfolk had been brave or foolish enough to resist, and those that had were slain to cow the rest. It would have been just, Ned knew, to return these stores to the folk they rightfully belonged to. Yet he could not. It was not the same to take from brigands than to take from innocents, he told himself. But the words felt hollow. The difference would not put bread back in the bellies of the smallfolk. Those of the women that wanted to return to their families, he granted escort, and it was most of them. A few remained, finding a man among the host to keep them.  
  
His soldiers had not seen women in weeks and not all could be granted favours. Ned captained Howland, ordering him to break up any fight that came over the matter. Camp followers would only slow them down, but they were as much part of a host as the runs or gambling. The Stark misliked it, but every man must decide for themselves where their honour lay. He had not forgot Black Pearl’s bed. Who was he to cast judgement in this? Of the Second Sons, fewer than two hundred men remained. Half as many had fled into the hills when the riders struck, and they would be a plague to the smallfolk of Andalos if left unfound. The prisoners were herded in a corner and kept under watch, Ben Plumm seeking audience with him as soon as he was brought to join them. Eddard refused him. It could wait ‘til morning. The Kingslayer had been more corpse than man when the fury went out of him, and the remaining Lannister men took him to a tent to tend his wounds. Another matter that could wait for dawn.  
  
The tent of the Titan’s Bastard was ostentatious and filled with two Lyseni girls, sisters, that hinted they were not disinclined to share the bed of a fresh victor. Ned politely sent them away. He helped himself to a cup of wine and sat, too exhausted to sleep. In Mero’s affairs was the true treasure of the night’s grim work, a rough hide map of the Free Cities from the bottom of the coastlands of Braavos to the edge of the Disputed Lands. The sellsword camp was marked by a Volantene honour, the small copper coin gleaming in the torchlight.  _A sennight from Pentos_ , Ned thought. The storm had blown them southwards. If too many ships had gone even further south, Rhaegar would already be on the march. He would never had better opportunity to break the Dragonhunt than when it was scattered and starving.  _But we might be the van_. If it were so, most of the fleet would be above them. If Robert had come ashore, he would have the hours to gather those who had survived before marching to Pentos. Too many questions, and few answers to meet them.  
  
Ned did not sleep in the bed, in the end. He would not lie in a dead man’s sheets. He left the tent empty and crawled into a bedroll for fitful sleep.  
  
\--  
  
Eddard woke to shouting. Dawn had come and passed while he slept. He rose wearily, Arnulf Karstark finding him. The man had meant to wake him, for there was trouble. The Lannisters. Fresh out of chains and already they were causing strife.  
  
“The Kingslayer attempted to seize a prisoner,” Lord Arnulf said. “Reed’s men forced them back but they will not desist in trying.”  
  
Ned strode along the other man to where the prisoners were held, and found a dozen Lannister men in arms there with twice as many northmen surrounding them. Ser Jaime was staring down Howland Reed, but found no give in the crannogman. His fingers were tight on the hilt of his sword. In the light of day the lions carved on the Lannister’s cheeks looked raw, red as the cloaks of his house.  
  
“Ah, Lord Stark,” the Kingslayer smiled. “A fine morning to you. Order your men to stand aside. Justice is in need of serving.”  
  
“I see no justice in your hand, Ser Jaime,” Ned said. “Only a blade.”  
  
“What is it that your northerners like to say,” the Lannister drawled. “The man that passes the sentence should swing the sword, is it? I would do just that.”  
  
Eddard glanced at the man Howland’s crannogmen were shielding. A sallow-skinned sellsword, jutting yellow teeth peeking over lips he licked with fear.  
  
“Your name?” Ned said.  
  
“Brano,” the man replied hastily in bastard Valyrian. “Ben Plumm said you gave oath those who surrendered would not be harmed, m’lord. The man wants to kill me. You swore an oath, m’lord.”  
  
“Handy man with a knife, this one,” Ser Jaime said. “I owe these beauties to his tender attentions.”  
  
The Kingslayer traced the marks on his cheeks, grimacing. He was still handsome, even with them, but less handsome than before. Wounded pride forged dark things in men.  
  
“He is not your prisoner, Ser Jaime,” Eddard said. “You have no right to slay him.”  
  
“Pretty word, right,” the Kingslayer said. “Didn’t hear much of it, when he was flaying the skin off my cheeks. Debt is the word I prefer, and we Lannisters have a saying about them.”  
  
“First an old man in the back, now a prisoner in chains,” Ser Lyn called out, having come to join the fray with a score of valemen at his back. “What a knight you make, Kingslayer.”  
  
The Lannister men bristled at the tone and words both. Would that Corbray had kept his mouth shut. Mockery would only goad the younger man to foolishness.  
  
“A trial by combat, then,” Ser Jaime coldly said. “Give the man a sword.”  
  
“Please, m’lord,” Brano begged, looking at Ned. “I hurt my leg in the battle. It would be murder.”  
  
A fine thing to say, begging off the trial for this when the Kingslayer himself was still bruised from beatings. It did not matter. Eddard had given his word, and would not go back on it.  
  
“Lord Eddard,” Corbray said, smiling. “I bring word to you. The newly-elected captain of the Second Sons seek audience.”  
  
Ned hesitated, but nodded. Ben Plumm swaggered in with two Karstark men flanking him, and the smile did not waver as he surveyed the situation.  
  
“I came to offer the services of my cutter for your wounded, Lord Stark,” the sellsword said. “But might I be of help in other matters?”  
  
“I gave my oath,” the Stark said. “I will not allow your man murdered.”  
  
“Your honour is not famed without reason,” Plumm flattered. “But if I could have a word with him?”  
  
Ned frowned, but allowed it. The sellsword captain paused at the Kingslayer’s side.  
  
“Might I borrow a knife, Ser Jaime?” he asked.  
  
The Lannister handed it to him without a word. Plumm knelt in front of the other sellsword, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Brano, you dumb whoreson,” he said, almost fondly. “Did you not wonder why no one else offered to wield the knife?”  
  
“It was Mero,” the prisoner said. “He made me do it, Ben.”  
  
“Mero let all manners of men into the Second Sons, it is true,” Plumm said. “My tenure will not be so troubled. As the elected commander of the Second Sons, I cast you out of the company.”  
  
“Captain,” the man said, but the knife opened his throat.  
  
The sellsword rose to his feet, smiling at Eddard.  
  
“He was no longer a Second Son,” he said. “No longer shielded by your oath.”  
  
Ned watched him for a long moment. A life traded for peace in the camp. The sellsword had been trying to help him, cutting a knot that could have grown to choke them all. But he had cut a throat as well, and that was nothing but murder.  
  
“Howland,” he said. “Clap him in chains. Captain Plumm will stand trial at noon.”  
  
The smile went away.


	17. Chapter 17

Three highborn stood in judgement and Jaime Lannister was not one of them. Leobald Tallhart, Ser Lyn Corbray and Ned himself filled the tent of the Titan’s Bastard. Ser Damon had loudly argued one of the westermen should be seated among the three, but he had grown quiet under the stares of the men around him. The Lannisters had made no friends with their high-handed ways.  
  
“Captain Ben Plumm of the Second Sons,” Leobald said. “You stand accused of murder.”  
  
“The punishment for it is the block,” Ser Lyn said. “But a stump will do, I suppose.”  
  
The sellsword still looked as if he believed it was all a dream. More than once he had tried to meet Eddard’s eyes, seeking assurances there that the Stark would not give. The dark-haired man would not lightly declare Ben Plumm’s life forfeit, but justice would be upheld. There would be no Tywin Lannister in his host, no butcher and paymaster of butchers to sully everything the Dragonhunt was meant to stand for. The rebellion had been tainted by the slaying of babes, but Ned was no longer a rebel. He no longer had to listen to Jon Arryn’s words of prudence and alliances in need of forging.  _Wine can be watered and remain wine, but justice so thinned is no justice at all._  
  
“My actions may have been hasty, my lords,” Plumm said after calming himself. “But it was no murder.”  
  
“Were you in fear of your life, defending yourself?” Leobald Tallhart asked pointedly.  
  
“I am a prisoner,” the sellsword said. “Should I not fear for my life? Is it not now threatened?”  
  
“It would have been guarded, had you not curried favour with blood,” Corbray said. “You should have listened more closely when they spoke of Starks and honour.”  
  
“Do you deny killing the man Brano?” Ned asked gravely.  
  
“Gods damn you all,” Plumm hissed. “I quiet your troubles and this is my reward? I thought you honest men.”  
  
“I see no need to call witnesses,” Leobald said. “Hundreds saw, and us as well. His guilt is beyond question.”  
  
“Guilty,” Lyn Corbray smiled. “Let us be on with it. The sooner they elect another captain, the sooner we can enter talks with him.”  
  
“This is a trial, Ser Lyn,” Ned sharply said. “Not a parlour game.”  
  
“It is a mummer’s show,” Ben Plumm said. “I demand a trial by combat.”  
  
Leobald looked to Ned questioningly.  
  
“Guilty,” the Stark reluctantly said, for it felt a briskly done business with a man’s life on the scales.  
  
“Do you deny my right?” Plumm shouted. “Where is your honour now, sunset lord?”  
  
“I’ll kill whatever poor cunt he sends in his place,” Ser Lyn said. “It will work up my appetite for supper.”  
  
Eddard nodded. He would stand himself, but would not deny Corbray was the better swordsman.  
  
“You may stand yourself, or name a champion,” Ned told the sellsword.  
  
Plumm was allowed to speak to the Second Sons but no man came forward. A man called Kasporio, another captain, mocked him to the laughter of the other sellswords. _You’ll soon be the cleverest corpse among us, Brown Ben_ , he shouted. Eddard’s face was grim yet none surprised, when the Lannisters came. Ser Jaime wore his plate, golden hair under a hauberk and sword belted at his hip.  
  
“Lannisters always pay their debts,” the Kingslayer said, speaking to Plumm but meeting Ned’s eyes.  
  
Ser Damon kept looking at the hundreds of northerners surrounding the score of Lannisters, face uneasy. Twice he spoke in hushed tones with his nephew, but Ser Jaime denied him. The Stark gave lease to Ser Lyn to take back his offer, but Corbray seemed eager now that he knew he would be facing the Kingslayer. Flat grounds were chosen and the blades tested.  
  
“Afraid, Corbray?” the Kingslayer mocked. “Do you not dare face me without a Valyrian blade?”  
  
“I earned Lady Forlorn, Lannister,” Ser Lyn said, unmoved. “All you’ve earned is shame for the good man who knighted you.”  
  
That sharp rejoinder drew first blood, by Eddard’s reckoning. The two faced each other and steel sang. It did not take long. The Kingslayer was a wonder with the blade, for all his arrogance, but he was bruised and sore and fresh from captivity. Ser Lyn would have won even without the Valyrian blade, Ned though, but with it there was no contest at all. On the fifth exchange Ser Jaime’s sword broke and he was made to face a naked edge with empty hands.  
  
“Seven Hells, Jaime,” Ser Damon shouted. “The gods have spoken. Surrender, you fool.”  
  
The Kingslayer gave, and the men cheered. Eddard wasted no more time on this fool’s thing, and Ben Plumm was dragged to a stump. He was forced down struggling. Ned unsheathed his sword. He would not misjudge the blow and make a mess of it. Death was punishment enough.  
  
“Ben Plumm, named Brown Ben,” the Stark said. “In the name of Robert Baratheon, lord of the Dragonhunt and all that serve under its banner, I sentence you to die. Do you have any last words?”  
  
“May the dragons kill the lot of you,” he hissed. “Filthy savages one and all.”  
  
The sword came down. He did not make a mess of it.  
  
\--  
  
The Second Sons elected their third captain in two days before night fell. It was a close thing, Ned was told. Kasporio the Cunning fell only a few votes short of a man called Tybero Istarion, who had until then been the paymaster for the company.  _Inkpots_ , the others called him. He was plump and balding, his hands stained with the ink he was named for. Istarion came before the assembled lords that night, when the fate of the sellswords was to be determined. Ser Jaime was still in his tent, said to be resting from his fight. His uncle stood for the westermen in council.  
  
“Though the manner of our meeting was troubled,” Istarion said, “it need not remain such. The Second Sons are sellswords and you are at war. Should you give me leave to send men into the hills, we will bring back those that have fled and swell our numbers.”  
  
Jeers sounded, but shouts of approval as well. Arnulf Kastark cut through the storm, speaking of limited supplies and how swiftly they would melt with another two hundred bellies to fill. Ser Lyn, whose victory had brought esteem from the host, spoke instead of the treasury that had been seized. Ned had had the coin tallied, and found the coffers were far from empty. Further question of the sellswords saw him learn most of it had been plundered from villages since the Second Sons had left Pentos.  
  
“Half the gold will serve as means to buy food from smallfolk as we campaign,” Ned said, and men fell silent as he finally have his word. “The other half will be split among the men, equal shares for all.”  
  
There was another roar of approval at that. Some lords would have preferred to see they shares swell and those of soldiers lessened, he knew. But they would not speak of it where they could be heard, and he would not have it. All had fought, to take the camp. All would share in the bounty there was to be had. Istarion looked pained at the announcement, but did not dispute it.  
  
“Should your men fight with us, Captain Istarion, they will do so by our rules,” Eddard told them man. “There will be no rape. No plunder or mistreatment of smallfolk. We fight soldiers, not women and children.”  
  
“Some will desert, under these terms,” the balding man warned him.  
  
“All are free to leave, if they wish,” Ned said. “But they will do so without blades. I will not have them turn brigand in our wake.”  
  
“Are we to march then, Lord Eddard?” Howland Reed asked.  
  
Eddard thought of the map. He needed answers, lest this war end before it began.  
  
“Riders will be sent north, to seek the rest of the Dragonhunt,” he said. “But on the morrow we march south. I mean to wake the dragon.”  
  
The raucous cheers drowned out everything else.


	18. Chapter 18

The first village they came upon looked abandoned, from a distance. Ned ordered a halt for use of the well, and found it was not so empty as it seemed. There were smallfolk hiding in cellars, brought trembling before him after a soldier heard a babe crying.  
  
“You will come to no harm,” Eddard promised. “I would only ask news of you, and food if you have it for sale. We have coin to pay for it.”  
  
It was a man who replied, tawny skin turned even darker by labour in the sun. The others deferred to him, even older men.  
  
“The magisters have already bought our stores, my lord,” he said. “They sent the Company of the Cat to take them back to Pentos. To prepare for the siege, they said.”  
  
“Rhaegar Targaryen remains behind the walls, then?” Ned asked.  
  
“A peddler passed through last week,” the man said. “He told us the Long Lances fought the Windblown by the dragon road. A victory for the Lances, though they say only horsemen saw battle.”  
  
That was dire news. The Targaryens would not have attacked the Tattered Princes’ company if they had not known it was in alliance with the Dragonhunt. How had Rhaegar learned? There had been no other men in the room where the pact was made.  
  
“Where are the Windblown now?” he asked.  
  
“No one knows, my lord,” the man said. “Some say they retreated back to Goyan Drohe, others they fled into the Velvet Hills. No outsider has come here since the peddler and he did not stay long, or know much.”  
  
Nothing else of use was gained. Eddard dismissed him and ordered the host to keep marching after a rest. Late in the afternoon, riding at the head of the army, he was granted company unasked for. Ser Jaime pulled his mount close, looking better for his rest. He wore no helm, and his hair did not hide the marks healing on his cheeks. Red was turning to brown scabs, and looked uglier for it.  
  
“Lord Stark,” the Kingslayer greeted him.  
  
“Ser Jaime,” Ned said.  
  
He remained silent. Let the man speak his mind if he wished, Ned would not go gaming for it. The Lannister sighed.  
  
“My nuncle urges me to make peace with you,” the Kingslayer said.  
  
“I did not know us to be at war,” the Stark said. “We share a banner.”  
  
“And does that sting, Lord Stark?” the blonde man smiled, but it was a brittle thing. “To share a banner with the Kingslayer?”  
  
 _He is young_ , Ned saw for the first time.  _Younger than me._  And still he'd spent years in the grasp of the Mad King, a hostage cloaked in white but a hostage nonetheless. It did not make the breaking of his oath any less a foul thing, but the Stark surprised himself to find the contempt threaded with pity. They’d all broken vows to Aerys, for the man had been no true king and his heir scarce better.  _But only one sword went through his back, and it was a sword sworn to guard him._  
  
“Robert judged that seven years of war would even your scales,” Ned said, for he had nothing more to give.  
  
“Was he drunk when he decided?” Ser Jaime said. “He so often is. Or perhaps my father offered enough gold even a king was bought. It would not be the first time he gilded that throne.”  
  
The tone was bitter.  
  
“I argued you should take the black,” Eddard said.  
  
“It isn't my colour, I must admit,” the Lannister said. “And the last time I took vows, well, we had our pleasant chat over a corpse.”  
  
“There is honour in the Night’s Watch,” Ned said.  
  
“Rapers and poachers as well,” Ser Jaime said. “Imagine, a man as pretty as me?”  
  
His lips thinned.  
  
“Well,” he said softly, “perhaps not so pretty now.”  
  
Eddard found no pity to spare for vanity, not when his own brother had been made a shrivelled husk by the Mad King’s torturers. It was hard to grieve for the stranger who’d spoken to him in Brandon’s voice, but he could and did grieve for the boy he’d loved.  
  
“I should thank you,” Ser Jaime said suddenly. “For freeing me. I have not, until now. That is ill-done.”  
  
“We share a banner,” Ned repeated.  
  
“And an enemy,” the Lannister said. “If we take them by surprise, mayhaps I’ll complete the set.”  
  
Eddard’s grip tightened on the reins.  
  
“There will no butchered babes in Pentos,” Ned said coldly. “Your father’s work will not be finished.”  
  
“I had nothing to do with Princess Elia’s death, Stark,” the Kingslayer said. “Or her children’s. I did not know. They were… they did not deserve that. No one deserves that.”  
  
The dark-haired man studied the westerman closely, and found regret there. Guilt as well. He could be lying, Ned knew. Lannisters could not be trusted. A lion was a lion, however young.  _Do not judge the son by the sins of his father_ , Rickard Stark had taught him. He’d burned believing it.  
  
“These are new shores,” Ned finally said. “New names can be made, here. Kingslayer need not be the only one men ever call you.”  
  
A fresh slate was beyond the ken of men to grant, he knew. But more could be written on them. That much could be earned. When Ser Jaime joined the council that night, he did not speak otherwise.  
  
\--  
  
A week they marched, the few towns and villages they found boasting only scared smallfolk and empty granaries. When they came closer to Pentos, they found that the young men had been taken from the fields and pressed into the service of the magisters. Bond servants were promised some relief from their debt if they would take arms, and those that did not come willingly had been marched back to the city with blades at their backs. There would be thousands, but their numbers did not worry Eddard. Terrified farmboys with pikes would break under the charge true foot, no matter what promises had been made to them. The Second Sons, true to Captain Istarion’s word, began to lose men to desertion in the night. There’d been two hundred and some when the march south had begun, but the number shrank to two thirds of that before long.  
  
Ned offered no mercy, for he had given terms for those who wanted to leave. None had left behind their arms, and so the horse under Arnulf Karstark hunted them in the hills. They were hung from trees and barns, though some managed to flee swiftly they were not caught again. Istarion made assurances that those who remained were steady men. _As steady as sellswords can be_ , the Stark thought. News came again. The Windblown had fought by the Velvet Hills. They’d won, some said, beaten back Rhaegar’s sellswords and his host of Westerosi exiles. Others said that the Tattered Prince’s cloak hung from the standard of the Company of the Cat and the Windblown scattered to the winds. All agreed that Rhaegar Targaryen had held command at the battle, and still lived. Of the Dragonhunt there was no word, even the name was not yet known in Andalos.  
  
On the eight morning outriders came in sight of Pentos, and what they told had the host up in arms. There was a host camped outside the walls of the city, perhaps three thousands. The bond servants taken from the fields, ill-equipped and led by magisters who thought them toys. And spread out on the beach, to the south of the city, the remains of the royal fleet had been hauled.  
  
This would prove to be a mistake, the maesters later wrote.


	19. Historical Interlude I

Extract from Archmaester Armen’s masterwork “Summer Crowns, or, the Last Death of Valyria”.  
  
 _“Though in Essos the great captains of the Dragonhunt are spoken of more as legend than men and many stories have been conjured of their unearthly origins, this is mere eastern ignorance. Their births were duly recorded by the maesters of the keeps they were born to, small lines of ink drafted to history by the men they heralded.  
  
The Silent Prince, as he is so now so often called, was born the second son of Lord Rickard Stark and Lady Lyarra Stark. Some manner of the greatness of the old Kings of Winter must have lain in Lord Rickard’s seed, for though he was murdered in his prime by Aerys Targaryen none of his children were fated to obscurity, for good or ill. His eldest child and son, Lord Brandon Stark, holds the distinction of being the most reviled Warden of the North since Torrhen Stark knelt to the Conqueror. His tale is intertwined with that of the youngest child of Lord Rickard, Benjen the Black, called ‘thrice-exiled and twice-crowned’ by the famously pithy Lord Tyrion Lannister. A fine chronicle of these events was written by Maester Alleras, and it will not be repeated in these pages. Lady Lyanna Stark, thirdborn and only daughter, is most remembered for the consequences of her death. Abducted by the Mad Prince as a maid of fourteen while still betrothed to Robert Baratheon, her death by fever after giving birth to the prince’s bastard can be said to have led to the shattering of more crowns than even Nymeria Martell could boast.”_  
  
\--  
  
Extract from the play “The Prince and the Dragonhunt”, penned by Lemore Stark:  
  
Jon Arryn, sorrowful:  
 _Though the man’s sins are great, statecraft demands prudence. King of seven kingdoms you may be, but what worth is your crown across the sea?_  
  
Stannis Baratheon, resentful and grasping:  
 _No men will follow you in this cause most foolish. The two of you, only defeat and disgrace await._  
  
Eddard Stark, heroic, handsomer than the others:  
 _For my sweet sister, treacherously slain, no fate is too dire to brave. If a dragon we must hunt, then let our banner fly high and justice be our sword._  
  
Robert Baratheon, solemn:  
 _If crown forbids I avenge my love, then let love triumph and crown be damned. King I may be, but tender feeling rules us all and the grave is no end to my passion._  
  
Robert Baratheon tosses the crown at Stannis Baratheon.  
  
Robert Baratheon, wise:  
 _Be you king, then, my brother. Much joy will it bring you and those you rule. Let vengeance alone be my crown, and all the gods be my host._  
  
Exit Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.  
  
Notes scribbled in the margin:  _“have Inago toss the crown directly at Ragal’s head from now on. i care not for his bruises, the crowd went wild when he did it by accident. and tell Inago he must lose a few stones if he is to keep playing Robert. have you ever seen the man? he is built like an ox, not an elephant.”_  
  
  
\--  
  
Extract from Maester Mollander’s controversial work, “The Lesser Brothers”:  
  
 _“Maesters must be men of reason and are not encouraged to write of fancies, but we are men still. One must only look at the troubles of the past decades to wonder if a better world and a better realm might not have been forged, should but a few blades have swung where they did not.  
  
Had Lord Mace Tyrell stormed the ancestral walls of House Baratheon instead of starved the men behind them, King Stannis the First would never have come to reign. Had his older brother sat the Iron Throne, would the Seven Kingdoms would have been spared much war? Even in his youth King Robert was a famed warrior, and his reputation would have given Balon Greyjoy pause when he plotted rebellion. The years have proved Robert Baratheon a just and able ruler, whose few flaws are overshadowed by his great virtues. Westeros was granted the lesser brother instead, and suffered for it.  
  
It is not so chancy a matter to speak of what might have come of Eddard Stark being the Lord of Winterfell, for this question has been asked by men both greater and smaller than I. None of the Seven Kingdoms have seen as much strife since the end of the rebellion, and it is no idle fancy to think there may have been prosperity there should the Silent Prince have ruled there instead of Brandon the Broken. The Seven sometimes see fit to grant the younger brothers talents that surpass the those of the eldest, and Lord Brandon’s infamous mistakes were beget by his hatred of this truth.”_  
  
\--  
  
Private correspondence between Archmaester Armen and Archmaester Robert:  
  
Archmaester Armen:  
 _“You are an ignorant fool and your work clear plagiarism of my Summer Crowns. Even your purported title is sheer stupidity. There was no ‘Sellsword King’. The Dragonhunt were sellswords for less than a year.”_  
  
Archmaester Robert:  
 _“History belongs to no man, Archmaester of Fellators. You might have gotten your rod and mask by sucking Perestan’s cock but I earned mine by right. There’s a dozen plays calling him by this title in Essos, one even written by the daughter of the man who is his Hand in all but name.”_  
  
Archmaester Armen:  
 _“No woman could have ever written something as stirring as ‘The Prince and the Dragonhunt’. It is just a lie to gild the Stark name and please the Silent Prince. It is fitting you take your title from mummers, though, for your book will be nothing but a lesser mummery of mine.”_  
  
Archmaester Robert:  
 _“At least people will read mine. Wading through your pages is like getting buggered by a too-talkative goat. I’ve met the girl and she has a man’s wits, it was her that penned the play. As for you pride, all I have to write is that Alleras called your work derivative.”_  
  
312 AC: Archmaester Armen initiatives a motion to strip Archmaester Robert of his chain for ‘behaviour unbecoming of a maester’, it is defeated by a margin of three votes.


	20. Chapter 19

Robert would have sounded the horns and smashed into the enemy host without pause, Ned knew. His foster-brother had a mind for strategy, when he bothered to use it, but he much preferred to leave that kind of labour to Eddard. Robert Baratheon had always said his place was in the van, smashing his way through any ‘cunt dumb enough to think they can beat us’. It had cost him, at Ashford. Randyll Tarly had let him cross the Cockleswhent then struck when half his forces were on the wrong side of the ford. The Lord of Horn Hill had taken the measure of his enemy, had known Robert would seek the same swift strikes that had seen him defeat three hosts at Summerhall. The Stark was wary of stepping into this trap writ large, even if the magisters had not meant to lay it. Mayhaps it was possible to seize Pentos, if panic spread and his horse rode swift enough the gates were kept open, but to keep it? No, not with the men he had. Less than eight hundred, some sellswords that may turn their cloaks to the magisters. There were too many men in the city. Guardsmen made for poor soldiers, but a kitchen knife in the back killed a man just as dead as Valyrian steel.  
  
Before marching Ned would have answers. What mummery was this, that the bondsmen pressed into service were decked in a half a hundred colours with as many standards? Captain Istarion sent a man into the city, a serjeant called Snatch who reeked of sourleaf. The sellsword had a hook for right hand, for which Istarion had chosen him. The magisters would not force a cripple to take a spear and fight in their name. He came back late in the day, and the tale he told had men roaring with laughter. Every rich man in the city had become a commander, he said. Each had claimed bond servants, put them in their colours and given them a banner to earn the magister they belonged to glory in battle. There was a battalion of strutting generals in the city, fat and drunk and quarrelling incessantly. Rhaegar had left Ser Willem Darry with a few exiles to command the defenses, but his orders were ignored and the merchants flaunted his every edict. There were men with the royal fleet, but few and they were not allowed in the city. The Pentoshi had refused the ships anchor in the port, fearing the crews would try to enforce Darry’s edicts.  
  
It was madness, Ned thought. Every wealthy man in Pentos thought himself a general, and settled squabbles with the others by having their bondsmen brawl or compete for the prettiest parade march. Rhaegar had been gone for weeks, to give battle to the Windblown with his sellswords and exiles, and whether he had found defeat or victory against the Tattered Prince no one knew. The serjeant had plied enough men with wine that he had learned numbers, to his pleasure. The Targaryens had bought no small army with magister’s gold. Three thousand under the Company of the Cat, eight hundred horse of the Long Lances and another five hundred named the Stormcrows. Six hundred foot from the Bright Banners and more small bands than anyone cared to name. Five thousand and dust, the man Snatch told. The Crownlanders were few, but well-armed and at least a thousand had marched under the King of Exiles. There was still talk in the city of what was called the Battle of the Stepstones, which many in Pentos counted a defeat. Manford Velaryon, Rhaegar’s admiral, was said to have been captured by the pirate styling himself Prince of the Narrow Sea.  
  
The ransom demanded for his release had been extravagant, either a fortune fit to beggar a king or the hand of Rhaella Targaryen in marriage. Salladhor Saan had written honeyed words of shared Valyrian blood, friendship and the need of a prince such as he to have a princely wife.  
  
Ned did not share in the bawdy jests that followed the tale, thoughts turned to the forces awaiting them in the distance. Ser Willem had ordered outriders to be sent around the city, he was told, but the magisters had insisted he send his own and then refused to provide him with horses. A Magister Ordello had offered Ser Willem a donkey and invited him to valiantly ride out, a slight that had almost seen blades drawn. Eddard would not spare pity for a man who willingly pledged his sword to Rhaegar Targayen, but contempt for the Pentoshi he would offer freely. He pondered the matter alone for some time, then sent for Howland. Not for advice, though he trusted the man like few others, but for a question. The lord of the Greywater Watch did not hesitate in his reply. Ned gathered the lords and Captain Istrion in council after, and found them eager to bare steel. The words of the serjeant had stirred them to more than laughter. Eddard waited until night fell, then waited no more.  
  
Fifty men, led by Howland Reed himself. That was the knife Ned had chosen to wield in the dark. Sat astride his mount, plate heavy on his shoulders, the Stark watched the Pentoshi camp as the moon rose. Tents were few and meager bedrolls many. There was no order to it, men in shared colours clustering around the same fires and sprawling out under the city walls like a host of vagrants. None but the crannogmen, he thought, would have dared swim the dark waters of the Bay of Pentos to reach the beached ships of the royal fleet unseen. Fires bloomed in the distance, crannogmen tossing torches and tar at Rhaegar’s ships and taking flight before they could be caught. The bondsmen began to stir, woken by the screams and light. Ned drew his sword and the rest of the riders did the same.  
  
“Lyanna,” Eddard said, moonlight glinting on steel.  
  
The cry was echoed and the Dragonhunt charged.  
  
\--  
  
Fear had killed more than swords, he thought when dawn came. Fear and fire. If the bondsmen had stood fast, the battle would have been lost. But Ned had waited for night, and in the dark his host had seemed a tide instead of a trickle. There’d been no glory in it, no matter what accolades lords gave him. Green boys and old men who’d never used a spear before had been slaughtered by hardened veterans, spreading the flames of their camp fires in their fright. Yet the magisters could lay claim to the worst of it. When the fleeing bondsmen had begun to flow into the city, the merchants had ordered the gates closed. Men had trampled each other trying to enter before it was too late, had turned on the guards forcing them back. The armed men had driven them back when reinforced, but hundreds had died to their own allies before the deed was done. There had been no plunder to be found, but breaking a host more than twice their number had the men drunk on a victory they called sweeter than wine.  
  
The stench was suffocating, and would worsen when the sun rose. Three ships of the royal fleet had managed to flee during the battle, taking refuge inside Pentos, and when Ned rode to the beach after the bloody work of the night was done he found that Howland’s men had not torched all those that remained. He had the handful of untouched ships stripped of anything useful and what little wealth they held, to be distributed equally among the men. Even the Second Sons, for they had fought their share. They were burned afterwards, for Eddard did not have the sailors here to crew them and would not leave them for Rhaegar’s use when he returned. The flames were still crackling long after the sun rose, the last of the royal fleet trailing smoke into the sky. He ordered the men to set their camp far enough from the walls no arrows would reach them. The sight of his host in good order would ensure none of the bondsmen who’d fled would think to return.  
  
Pentos did not send envoys until noon, when the stench of the corpses in the wind had grown unbearable for all.  _A drab sparrow and a flock of finches_ , Ser Lyn japed when the half-dozen men under the truce banner passed through the gate. Ned took only a few to meet them. Ser Jaime for the westermen, Corbray for the Vale and Arnulf Karstark for the North. The Kingslayer and Ser Lyn smiled at the other often, the enmity there held close by both. Only one of the envoys was Westerosi, the rest of them magisters in armour too smooth to have ever seen use. The exile was broad and tall, brown hair thick and his face grimly set.  
  
“Stark,” the Westerosi said, offering no courtesy save the name of Ned’s house.  
  
“Have you sold your manners as well as your honour, Darry?” Ser Lyn said. “The man stands a lord, and you only a knight.”  
  
“They say one battle was enough to turn your cloak, Corbray,” Willem Darry said. “But others do not abandon their rightful king so eagerly.”  
  
“Rhaegar is mad as his father, if he thinks his crown worth more than what it cost to forge it,” Lord Arnulf said.  
  
“We did not come to bicker of crowns,” one of the magisters said. “And Ser Willem speaks only for ashes on sand. We greet you in the name of Pentos, Lord Stark. It is a great misfortune that we cannot welcome you as a guest.”  
  
 _I have had hundreds, thousands of your men killed_ , Ned thought, watching the man who had spoken. Yet there was no anger on the magister’s face. He had yet to glance at the field strewn with dead. Swallowing his disgust, the Stark nodded a greeting.  
  
“You may send out men to bury your dead,” he told the envoys. “No more than a hundred, with no blade on them.”  
  
“A trifling matter,” another magister dismissed.  
  
“They died for you,” Ned said. “That is no trifle.”  
  
“All men must die,” the first magister said. “We have many fields. Many men.”  
  
“Many corpses, at this rate,” Ser Jaime said.  
  
The Lannister’s tone was light, but Eddard had sailed with Ser Gerion for weeks. He knew that narrowing of the eyes, that thinning of the lips not quite hidden by the smile. Jaime Lannister was as disgusted as he was.  _There is the Kingslayer and there is the boy_ , he thought. Two men sharing a face, the oathbreaker and the same youth who had been knighted by the Sword of the Morning. One of these, he could not bring himself to despise.  
  
“Have you ever seen a Dothraki khalasar, Lord Stark?” the magister asked.  
  
“I have not,” Eddard said.  
  
“They are known to us, in Pentos,” the merchant said. “Great warriors who wander the plains, and sometimes come in sight of our walls.”  
  
“They are offered every courtesy,” the other magister said. “Beautiful girls. Great and glorious gifts.”  
  
“And then they leave,” the first magister smiled.  
  
The offer was there, hanging in the air. If it were Robert treating with them, Ned thought, he would have lost his temper at that. At the thought that his vengeance could be bought away with gold and silk and women. If it were the Blackfish, he would have offered cutting mockery. But Ned was neither of them, so he said nothing. The silence that hung behind him as he left was answer enough.


	21. Chapter 20

It was not a siege, though some men called it that. Ned’s host rested in sight of the walls for eight days as the men grew restless. Only two of the lords understood Eddard’s meaning without needing to be told. Howland who knew much and spoke little, and Lyn Corbray. The man was unpleasant, but not without cunning. The Dragonhunt watched the walls and let word spread that Pentos was under attack until the Stark could be certain that it would reach Rhaegar Targaryen. He could not be certain it would be enough to force the would-be king to return with his host, but how certain could Rhaegar truly be of his magister allies? The longer his army camped in sight of the walls, the greater the temptation to trade the Targaryens within for peace would grow. The merchants had no love for the dragons, no true investment in his claim. Ned had understood this, in Braavos. The Mad King’s son was a way to break the truth of the treaty with the Secret City without breaking the letter, a tool but not a friend.  
  
Magisters had no friends, he thought. Only servants and rivals.  
  
They marched back into the hills on the ninth dawn. Unless Rhaegar sent naught but horse and sent it as soon as he heard, even if he returned he would be too late to catch even their tail.  _Let it be enough_ , Ned prayed. Let these few days allow Robert to gather the rest of the Dragonhunt in peace. Their march north was not contested, and there was little to do but ride and sleep and ride again. Seven days of returning to the same villages they had crossed, using the same paths as before. All that had changed were the rumours. The Windblown, Ned was told, still lived. The Tattered Prince had been defeated by the enemy, but his losses slim and his retreat into the hills swift. Rhaegar himself, they said, had slain a man wearing the tattered cloak he was known for during the retreat. But it had been a trick, another man made to wear it. There were rumours of another host gathering north, and those stirred hope in the Stark.  
  
There were two ships waiting for them when they returned to the shore they’d first landed on, and there hope turned to joy. One was filled with supplies, the very same Ned had bargained for. The second held near a hundred men, led by the Greatjon, and a message from Robert. His foster-brother lived, thank any gods who’d been willing to listen. The first ship had brought barrels of wine, and that night Eddard ordered them open. If this was not cause to celebrate, what would be? The Greatjon spent half the evening complaining he’d missed their host given the dragons a bloody nose, and the other loudly demanding to be told of the Battle of the Fires. The Second Sons grew sullen when there was talk of their own defeat, but Pentos had been a shared fight and this they liked better. There were brawls, but this was not Eddard’s first campaign. Sober men with clubs were awaiting the troubles that always came with soldiers in their cups. The lord of the Last Hearth spoke to him after the meal, before he grew drunk enough to forget.  
  
“Most Redwyne ships washed ashore closely,” the Greatjon said. “Lord Robert was not with them, but he rode down the coast until he found a thousand men encamped.”  
  
“How many made it across?” Ned asked gravely.  
  
“The Blackfish said three thousand, and whatever you have here,” the northerner said.  
  
“Ser Brynden is alive, then,” Eddard said.  
  
“Hale as a trout half his age. But we lost Ethan Glover, Ned,” the Greatjon said. “Men saw Gerion Lannister’s carrack tip over as well, though no corpse was fished out.”  
  
The Stark allowed himself a moment of grief for both men. He’d known Ethan more than passingly, for the man had once been Brandon’s squire. The Glover had once fancied Lyanna, he remembered, and been hard-eyed when he’d said he would come to Essos to avenge her.  _Dead before he ever saw the shore_ , he thought. Gerion he’d come to like later, but what had been forged between them going to Braavos and back had not been a weak thing.  _The gods care not who is deserving_.  
  
“Lord Robert means to join with the Windblown before marching south,” the Umber said. “He asks that you gather everyone you can and meet him on the way to the Velvet Hills.”  
  
“Is there word of Rhaegar’s host?” Ned asked.  
  
“The drumming you gave his owners in Pentos has him frightened,” the Greatjon grinned. “He sent men south to relieve the city, though we know not how many.”  
  
“Then we must make haste,” Eddard said. “We will have no better chance to break him than striking with the Tattered Prince as his army is split.”  
  
Not on the morrow, not after wine had been made to flow, but at the latest the dawn that followed. He would not brook further delay. The campaign could be brought to a close in but a handful of months, if they slew Rhaegar on the field. The two of them returned to the fires and the laughter after that, but Ned did not drink more than a single cup. There would be preparations to make, before they marched. There always were.  
  
\--  
  
It was a blind sort of war, Eddard considered. In the Seven Kingdoms ravens had brought word of armies marching from further than outriders could see. In these hills, the world out of the sight of his men was nothing more than ink on parchment. Five hosts were moving across Andalos, none able to afford more than guesses of where the others were and where they meant to go. Chance would count for much, and the thought disquieted Ned. Chance had not been kind to him or those he loved, these last few years. In the end, it was Robert that found them. Outriders from the two parts of the Dragonhunt came across each other in the same town, and even as Eddard prepared to take his host east where he’d been told Robert was encamped five hundred riders thundered across the hills. His foster-brother was at their head, his great horned helm and booming laughter more banner than the cloth trailing in the wind.  
  
“Damn it, Ned,” Robert said, clapping his shoulder hard enough the plate rang. “Couldn’t wait for me to start buggering the bastards, could you?”  
  
The clamour from the Dragonhunt when the man who’d renounced a crown to lead them appeared was deafening. Robert insisted Eddard bring him to every man who’d stood out in the two battles, trading japes and praises. He left a trail of pleased men in his wake and even grim Arnulf Karstark could not help but stand proud, when the victor of the Trident told him that if he’d been leading the foot at Ashford there would have been a Baratheon banner over Highgarden within the fortnight. It had always been so easy to love Robert, Ned thought, and shied away from the remembrance of red cloaks and corpses. The hosts were joined the day that followed, and for the first time in months Eddard shared a table with his foster-brother and Brynden Tully. The older man was amused.  
  
“I was told your brother was the reckless one,” the Blackfish said. “Did you meant to take Pentos before we even arrived?”  
  
“I only meant to look upon their forces,” Ned said. “But found opportunity.”  
  
“So much for the dragon’s fleet,” Robert said gleefully. “Let’s see him flee now.”  
  
“He is cornered, now,” Ned warned. “And more in thrall to the magisters than ever. If he is ever to return to the Seven Kingdoms it will be on their ships.”  
  
“He’s finished, Eddard. He has too little left to offer to great lords,” Ser Brynden said. “If Rhaegar took a Tyrell wife it might sway Highgarden, but not Mace’s banners. Not with Prince Renly betrothed to a Redwyne. Lord Arryn is Hand and wed to my niece, Lord Tywin’s grandson will sit the Iron Throne and the North will never bend the knee to a Targaryen. Doran Martell might hate the lions, but he remembers who left his sister in the hands of Aerys. There is no love there. Even if Balon Greyjoy uses his cunt mouth to declare for the dragons, it won’t be enough. They don’t have the men.”  
  
“The Blackfyres were a threat without the great houses behind them,” Eddard said.  
  
“The Blackfyres did not have fathers who burned men alive,” the Blackfish said. “And they had the Golden Company behind them, not the lot Rhaegar bought with wealth not even his own. Whose orders do you think they’ll heed, the prick with silver hair or the men with the silver coins?”  
  
“It matters not,” Robert said. “The Raper Prince was craven enough he fled the entire fucking Seven Kingdoms to avoid my hammer, but he has nowhere left to go. Here is where it ends. He has no more fleet to escape, no more magisters to take him in.”  
  
Three days later, at the edge of the Velvet Hills, they found the Windblown. Two days after that, Rhaegar Targaryen found them all.


	22. Chapter 21

They had the numbers on their side. Robert urged an attack before the Targaryen put his host in order, but the Tattered Prince was wary and Ned inclined to side with him.  
  
“Your Minstrel King has proved a mouthful of stones, and I would not bite down again,” the commander of the Windblown said.  
  
“They have no heavy horse,” Robert insisted. “The bastards will break under a hard charge.”  
  
“Or take our knights for a dance in the hills,” the Blackfish said.  
  
“Bloodbeard has seen this done before,” the Tattered Prince said. “In the Disputed Lands the Long Lances tickled the Tyroshi horse until they gave chase, and led them straight into his Cats. It was slaughter.”  
  
There was bad blood between the Pentoshi and the man who led the Company of the Cat, but caution as well. The way men told, when the Windblown and the Cats had clashed in years past the Tattered Prince had lost as much as he won. It was a different kind of war than the ones he knew, Ned thought. Sellswords broke easier than real soldiers, but they had seen many battlefields. They knew the trade of war deeper than any man of the Seven Kingdoms, save perhaps the Blackfish.  
  
“We stand between Rhaegar and Pentos,” Eddard said. “He must give battle, or watch his supplies dwindle and his sellswords desert as the days pass.”  
  
“He could also flee down the Little Rhoyne,” Robert growled.  
  
“A man can hope,” the Tattered Prince smiled. “Then we may steal a march on Pentos, and he will find our banners above the walls when he comes.”  
  
The sellsword was certain of the men he had in the city, certain enough he made promises there would be no siege but only a sack. The hunger the older man spoke of putting the city of his birth to the sword with made Ned uneasy. He would rather die than lead a host against Winterfell.  _This is the true face of our ally, bought with gold and promises_ , he thought. He should not have looked for more in the Pentoshi, for no good men could be bought. Robert gave, but with ill-grace. Rhaegar’s host was kept under the eyes of outriders, nestled as it was between the Velvet Hills. The Dragonhunt and the sellswords made camp around a low hill crowned by a handful of stones that might have once been a sept or a manse. The Blackfish heckled and cursed the men of the Dragonhunt into a semblance of order instead of allowing them to sprawl, and Ned was glad of it. He’d not forgot the Battle of the Fires, and knew well the cost of disorder and surprise.  
  
Rhaegar hesitated for two days, or so it seemed to them. Later, Ned would learn that the sellswords had demanded greater pay if they were to fight a host of greater numbers and threatened desertion otherwise. Noon just passed when the Company of the Cat began marching down the hills, lines thick and glistening with steel. At their left flew the pennons of the Crownlanders, men of the Narrow Sea more than the rest. Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon and half a dozen more, loyal to the bitter end to the house that had raised them. It was on the right flank that the captains of the Dragonhunt saw weakness. No proud banners flew there, only sellswords of no great name. The Long Lances and the Stormcrows remained mounted on the heights behind them, waiting and watching. The battle began with the royalists firing volleys from the hills, but they found no purchase for the Blackfish was a farsighted man. When the archers of the Dragonhunt sent answer, it was from behind wooden mantlets.  
  
Ser Brynden had not spoken untrue, when he’d boasted few men were better with a bow than those of the Riverlands. For every volley received they returned two, until the Company of the Cat thundered down the hill to them. Retreat was hasty and they fell behind the lines of the Dragonhunt. Valemen and northmen, Reachmen and Stormlanders. Banners of every kingdom flew, save for Dorne and the Isles. Steel clashed under the pounding son, the melee spreading across the foot of the hills. Ned remained mounted to the side, watching the enemy horse. No man had yet caught sight of Rhaegar Targaryen, but Robert waded in the thick of it with his hammer high. The tides of men flowed and ebbed, but neither broke. It was hard a fight as the Trident, Eddard thought, if not more. The sellswords had sold their lives to the Targaryens, but did not let them go cheaply. It was the Windblown that tipped the scales. Split in half to the flanks, they found a match in the Crownlanders but the lesser companies to the right gave under the press.  
  
Even as Rhaegar’s right began to weaken, a triumphant roar came from the centre and Robert’s hammer rose thick with red. Bloodbeard, the commander of the Company of the Cat, lay broken and bloody at his feet. A shiver went through the lines of the sellsword companies, as if a living thing, and the right flank broke. The battle would have been won there, if the Long Lances and the Stormcrows had not charged. Ned drew his sword and his men did the same, even the horse of Windblown gathering behind him. Without a word, he put his horse to gallop and met the enemy.  
  
In the years that followed, he would remember little of the clash. The Stormcrows peeled off to strike the flank, but the Windblown’s horse under Caggo held them back. It was the Long Lances that saw the worse of it, shattering the foot that had broken the small companies before being shattered by Westerosi horse in turn. Ned had no eyes to spare the rest of the battle, and so never glimpsed the duels that would later be famed. Rhaegar Targaryen took the field, rallying the collapsing Company of the Cat and turning the tide in the centre until he met Robert. Blows were traded, the songs said, until the Minstrel King’s shoulder was shattered by a hammer stroke. Robert would have killed him had Oswell Whent not struck him from the side and wounding him. It would have been a disaster, the heart of their host slain before the eyes of all, but there was more than one Kingsguard on the field. The Kingslayer fell upon them, slaying Ser Oswell and leaving red ruin across Rhaegar’s face.  
  
Robert was dragged back behind the lines and so was Rhaegar, both bleeding from the hands of other men. Ser Brynden rallied the men and the Cats forced to give ground until Ned swung the horse around and charged them from the heights. It was mayhem after that, chaos beyond the rule of any god or king. The Crownlanders retreated in good order and the Windblown under Denzo D’han let them, damn the man, for he and his sellswords climbed the hills to have first pick of the plunder in the Targaryen camp instead. Rhaegar was with them, Ned was told, and there would be no letting the man slip away once more. He left the Dragonhunt in the hands of the Blackfish and took the strength of the North with him, joined by the Valemen under Corbray. Pursuit was harsh, but Eddard cared not for exhaustion. Lyanna’s bones would have their due. Outriders found the exiles without trouble, and their destination was plain for men to see. Rhaegar’s last loyal men sought Pentos, and would rather men died to the march than for the column to slow.  
  
Ned’s foot was not swift enough, exhausted by the day’s fighting. He took his three hundred horse ahead and bade Arnolf Karstark to make haste in following. The Crownlanders heard them come, but they were tired as well. Eddard’s riders trampled the tail of their column, eyes wild as they sought to kill the sole male Targaryen of age and to end the war with his corpse. How many died, the Stark did not know, but even with his foot nowhere in sight the scent of victory was in the air.  
  
Until the horns sounded.  
  
The Bright Banners, six hundred men fresh, were still distant. But the knights of the Crownlands were not, ranks swelled by free riders that had not been seen in the battle. The force Rhaegar had sent to break the siege on Pentos, Ned thought. They had turned back, too late to join the battle but not too late for this. A knight decked in griffins of pale and red rode at their head, and he fought like a man possessed. He smashed into Eddard’s horse and death followed. Lord Jon Connington was said to be a bold man and a reckless one, but that day his steel matched his temper. A score of men died under his sword and he sought Ned in the fray. Swords struck against shields and Eddard’s head rang when his helm was thrown off. Connington was the better sword, and slew his horse under him. Had the Stark been but a moment short, the dying beast would have broken his legs.  
  
“Ned,” the Greatjon screamed, and barrelled into the fray.  
  
Connington was nigh unhorsed by the wroth of the Umber, but it was not enough. The sword went through Greatjon’s throat, death writ in the blood that gurgled out. Eddard rasped out and breath and rose to his feet, in desperation striking the eyes of Lord Jon’s mount. The destrier went wild and Connington was unhorsed on his back.  
  
“Rebels,” Lord Jon screamed as he rose, hurt from the fall. “Traitors.”  
  
“Victors, too,” Lyn Corbray said, riding behind him and driving Valyrian steel in the man’s back.  
  
It was not enough. The foot was rallying, and the Bright Banners soon to join it. Even if Arnolf Karstark made haste Ned would not have the numbers to make this a victory. He’d been reckless, and men had died for it. Good men, better than he.  
  
Ashes in his mouth, Eddard Stark called for a retreat.


	23. Chapter 22

The Tattered Prince might have already held Pentos, from the way he carried on. Before the dust had settled and Ned had returned from his costly folly, the Pentoshi had already begun to make promises and even scores. There was a brawl when the Windblown who’d first looted the Targaryen camp presented only half the treasury of the Company of the Cat and called it the entire lot, having hastily buried the rest, but they’d been seen. The Tattered Prince refused to punish them for what he called  _misplaced enthusiasm_ , which did nothing to ease the rising tensions. Half the officers of the Cats taken prisoner were murdered in cold blood, the others made to announce the end of the company. Ned would have demanded answer of the Prince for it, but the Blackfish had him restrained.  
  
“That grudge was earned long before we crossed the sea,” Ser Brynden said. “There is no gain for us here, Eddard. Only losses we can ill-afford. Leave it be.”  
  
It rankled, but Ned obeyed. He would not splinter the Dragonhunt when Robert was still unconscious. A cutter had seen to him and pronounced the wound not a dangerous, for though it had scraped bone no guts or lungs had been torn. Before nightfall came the men of what had once been the Company of the Cat were out of chains and proudly Windblown, promised riches and honours under the coming reign of the Tattered Prince. The Pentoshi, Ned thought, had been the true winner of the Battle of the Stones. Everyone had bled, but only he had grown. The surviving Stormcrows surrendered their way straight into the pay of the rising Prince of Pentos, but what remained of the Long Lances was not so eager to turn their cloaks. They’d taken hard losses to Eddard’s knights, though their captain was more than courteous to him when they spoke. Gylo Rhegan was looked more tanner than soldier, and spoke so quietly the Stark could not help but think of Roose Bolton.  
  
“My Long Lances were beaten by your Dragonhunt, yes?” the man said. “That makes us your prisoners, not those of His Tattered Grace.”  
  
Eddard did not balk away from the distinction and agreed without demands, the sight of dead men in chains still fresh in his mind. The Tattered Prince was amused, but after the smiles made certain that any spoils from the Long Lances would be shared no matter who held them. The Stark would not begrudge him that, for though the man had proved himself a butcher terms had been given. Ned spent the night seeing to his dead. Half the Umber men said they would leave upon return to Pentos, to return the Greatjon’s bones to the Last Hearth, but the rest swore to remain until Rhaegar was dead. Maege Mormont, who’d killed Lord Guncer Sunglass in the melee and now used his armour as a footrest, added them to her forces without qualms. The men who’d come with her from Bear Island were few. Breaking Rhaegar’s host had cost them more than the Greatjon. Leobald Tallhart had been run through the guts by a Stormcrow and died in the night, moaning and feverish as Ned stood vigil at his bedside. Eddard had taken all of them to these shores for justice, and given them only death.  
  
There was no godswood, but alone by a stream he prayed.  
  
Robert woke with dawn and called for wine, getting less of it than he wished and tempered by Eddard’s company as well. His foster-brother was in a dark mood.  
  
“The Raper Prince slips through my fingers again,” Robert growled. “I had him, Ned. If the fucking bat hadn’t blindsided me I would have crushed his skull.”  
  
“Ser Jaime avenged that injury tenfold,” the Stark said.  
  
The wounded man barked out a laugh.  
  
“I saw that. Fancy riposte, the Kingslayer did, but there went Oswell Whent,” he admitted, mollified. “Still looks like his sister, but the man knows his fighting.”  
  
“His blow on Rhaegar’s face will leave a scar,” Ned added.  
  
“If it takes sick I may have to beat the Kingslayer,” Robert said. “I’ll not have the sickbed take the dragon from me.”  
  
Eddard stayed silent for a long while, until his foster-brother bade him to get on with it.  
  
“The boy Viserys,” he said. “He must be sent to your brother in King’s Landing, if we capture him in Pentos.”  
  
“Dragons grow,” the Baratheon snarled. “And we both know what they do when come to manhood.”  
  
“We are better than this, Robert,” Ned said softly, almost pleadingly. “We have to be. We did not unseat Aerys to murder children.”  
  
“And you’ll want me to spare Rhaegar’s bastard as well,” his foster-brother hissed. “It killed her, Ned. Dragons ruin everything they touch.”  
  
“He is Lyanna’s son as well,” Eddard said. “The last thing in the world we have of her.”  
  
Robert looked away.  
  
“The girl, Daenerys,” he said. “She can live. Rhaella as well. But House Targaryen ends, Ned.”  
  
“I will not brook the slaughter of my nephew or of any boy of seven,” Ned said, though his voice was calm it had iron in it.  
  
“Then they go to the Wall,” Robert hissed. “As soon as they are of age. Let the wildlings have the mall. There will be no more dragonspawn, and that’s all the mercy you’ll get of me.”  
  
 _I’m sorry, Lyanna_ , Eddard thought. Silently, he nodded.  
  
\--  
  
It took them near two months to get to Pentos, after. The plunder was split in equal shares, and that did a great deal to invigorate the men. Though none had grown rich as princes from the coffers that were emptied, the most prudent of them would be able to afford to live well for many years. The sellswords spoke oft of the wealth behind the walls of Pentos that was there for the taking, and Ned saw men he had thought better grow hungry at the talk. Justice was all well and good, the Blackfish told him, but you couldn’t spend it for wine or a woman’s touch. The wounded were left with the supplies to trail behind the greatest part of the host, and the Dragonhunt marched south. To the dragon road, and the final reckoning it led to. Though outriders combed through the plains ahead, no trace of the enemy was found. Rhaegar and his loyalists had turned to smoke, it seemed.  
  
Hard japes of Aerys’ son being king only of hurried retreats were traded, and a man from the Reach with a good singing voice put words of mockery to the tune of ‘Fair Maids of Summer’, calling it ‘The King That Ran’. It spread like wildfire, though it was shouted by soldiers with more enthusiasm than skill.  _He ran to Dorne and to Oldtown, he ran so far that up was down._  Robert belted it out frequently when in his cups, to the delight of the soldiers. His legend had only grown from his triumph against Rhaegar, stifled only by the treachery of a Kingsguard. Ser Oswell, Ned thought, had not seemed to him so wicked a man as was now told in stories. And had not turned into a giant bat to distract Robert, though that egregious lie was the fondest take on the tale by far. The good mood ebbed when they closed on Pentos.  
  
A fortnight the spent on the dragon road, wary of ambush. The force Rhaegar had taken into the hills was spent, but Eddard had not forgot the ugly boast of the magisters.  _We have many fields. Many men._  He hoped the merchant princes of Pentos would not be so foolish as to send out more bond servants to die in vain, but had little faith in the sense of those strutting and venal drunks. Their march went uncontested, until they came in sight of the city itself and the outriders came back with flushed excitement. The gates of Pentos, they said, were open. And there was fighting in the city. Ned rode ahead with the horse, the Tattered Prince at his side, and there was not even a man on the walls when the rode into the city. Houses were barricaded and the streets empty, save for fighting near the wealthiest manses. The Prince ordered a shoemaker’s door broken down and the man dragged out, grinning nastily as the terrified smallfolk told his tale.  
  
The Targaryens and the magisters had quarrelled. One had been bold enough to try seizing Queen Rhaella and the children before Rhaegar entered the city, but Ser Willem had held the manse and turned its courtyard into a slaughtering yard. The Bright Banners, who were now trying to sack the manses of the magisters, had stayed out of it for fear of the exiles still outnumbering them but turned looters the moment the Westerosi left. Rhaegar had fled. Seized a dozen ships in the port by force and killed anyone in his way before setting sail three days past. No one knew where he meant to go, though they’d sailed southwards after leaving the Bay of Pentos.  
  
“Why, Lord Stark,” the Tattered Prince said. “I appear to be Prince of Pentos. Let us put order to my lovely city, yes? I have been waiting for this day a very, very long time.”  
  
What followed was called many things, after, but Ned had been there from the beginning and found no name more fitting than the one Archmaester Armen coined: the Court of Knives.


	24. Chapter 23

There were three square towers of brick, near the heart of the city, and wide paved place in front of them. The Tattered Prince, who now styled himself Prince Mylerio Narratys though men still knew him best by his sellsword name, had long tables set down on the stone. There half a hundred gilded seats stolen from manses were set down for he and his favourites, as trembling servants brought them the finest delicacies the magisters had kept to themselves. He called it, Ned heard, holding court. Prince Mylerio smiled and promised he was a just man, would be a just prince, then had the magisters dragged before him to sit in judgement of them. Already the stone ran thick with blood, swarmed by flies and wild dogs.  
  
“Magister Ordello,” a dark-skinned man called Bill Bone announced.  
  
One of the two magisters who’d come to treat with him before the walls was dragged forward by Windblown, and his knees struck with cudgels so he could not stand. The magister was weeping, his silks soiled and his face bruised. The Blackfish laid a hand on Eddard’s arm, but he had not needed to. The Stark stood there in utter silence, still as the grave. He could do nothing save for burn this into his memory, so that madness and cruelty a match for the Mad King’s never be forgot.  
  
“Please, my prince,” he begged. “I was not one of them. I did not elect you.”  
  
The Tattered Prince laughed, and his men laughed with him. His captains all had chairs, among them some of the men from the Company of the Cat who’d been spared. The commander of the Stormcrows sat at his left, and leaned forward with interest.  
  
“He has the looks of a guilty man, this one,” the Ghiscari said.  
  
“Come now, Prendahl, this is a court of justice,” Prince Mylerio tutted. “We do not rush to such hasty verdicts. The innocent have nothing to fear.”  
  
 _Is there a single place in the world_ , Ned thought,  _where the innocent should not be afraid?_  It was hard to believe so, looking down at the corpse of what must have been a boy before the dogs tore off the face.  
  
“Magister Ordello,” the Summer Islander said. “It is said that you have done very well trading in spices.”  
  
“All I have is yours, my prince,” the man babbled, prostrating himself before the high table. “My manse, my daughters, my ships. Please.”  
  
“Would anyone like to speak for the accused?” the Tattered Prince called out, gaze sweeping across his officers.  
  
Caggo tore off a strip of pork from his plate, chin dripping with green sauce.  
  
“Your daughters,” he asked the magister. “How old?”  
  
“Thirteen, my lord, and sixteen,” Ordello hastened to say. “Pretty as flowers.”  
  
Caggo turned to Prince Mylerio and shrugged.  
  
“I’m holding off for twins,” he said.  
  
“You are a cruel man, my friend,” the Tattered Prince tittered. “Guilty.”  
  
Bill Bone struck the magister in the back with a long dagger, then again in the belly before dropping him to the ground.  
  
“Alas, Magister Ordello has committed treason most foul,” Prince Mylerio announced to the laughter of his companions. “His wealth and daughters will, naturally, be under the stewardship of his beloved prince.”  
  
 _In the pursuit of a madman we have crowned a monster_ , Ned thought, watching as the corpse was thrown onto a pile of others. Ser Jaime stood at his side, and though the Lannister wore his arrogance as a cloak Eddard could see the disgust in his eyes.  
  
“This one, I think, they would not begrudge me,” the younger man murmured.  
  
“Shut your mouth, boy,” the Blackfish whispered furiously. “We still have need of him.”  
  
Ned met the Kingslayer’s eyes, and neither looked away. There was an understanding there, between the man who’d watched the madness of Aerys burn green and the man who’d lost his father to the flame.  
  
“Lord Eddard Stark, Ser Brynden Tully and Ser Jaime Lannister,” Bill Bone announced. “Of the Dragonhunt, one and all.”  
  
The three Westerosi stepped forward through the blood and the flies, standing like supplicants at the altar of butchery. The Tattered Prince looked pleased to see them.  
  
“My friend,” he said. “I have kept seats for you and Lord Robert, should you wish to join us.”  
  
“We would not presume to meddle in the affairs of Pentos, Prince Mylerio,” the Blackfish said.  
  
“Oh, but you are most honoured guests,” the prince smiled. “The most honoured guests in all of Essos.”  
  
“We have heard talk,” Eddard said. “And would ask audience of you.”  
  
This was the third morning after the seizing of Pentos, and the slaughter had finally slowed. The half of the city occupied by the Dragonhunt had quaked in terror behind closed doors, as the other half fell prey to the Windblown and the other sellswords. Screams and flame had filled the nights, this mummer’s court the days.  _This is madness_ , Ned had told Ser Brynden.  _Not our madness_ , the Blackfish had replied.  _Better we keep half the city safe than burn it all fighting the men it belongs to._  
  
“For you, Lord Eddard, always,” Prince Mylerio said. “I will not soon forget who fought at my side to reclaim my rightful crown.”  
  
Eddard saw corpses here, but no right. Mayhaps that was the way of the world, here and everywhere.  _Right is what the men with swords say it is._  It was an uneasy thought, that for all the righteousness of its cause what had seen the rebellion more than idle words was fields of enemy dead. What would justice have mattered, if they had lost?  _It matters,_  Ned thought, teeth gritting.  _We will make it matter._  With swords, his mind treacherously whispered, but what else did Eddard Stark had to offer? Death had followed in his wake since the raven had come to the Eyrie, and would remain his cloak til it became his shroud. The Tattered Prince rose, leaving his court to three captains for ‘no single man may be worth a prince’. They were escorted into one of the towers, where servants offered them wine and the prince sprawled across a cushioned seat.  
  
“The same wine as when we met in Braavos, though you did not drink that night,” Prince Mylerio said of the drink in their cups. “Not with me, anyway, though I can hardly begrudge you the choice of the Black Pearl over a twisty old rogue like me.”  
  
Ned nodded, for he did not trust himself to speak of either then or now.  
  
“We’ve heard that Rhaegar Targaryen was sighted in Tyrosh,” Ser Brynden said.  
  
“I have friends in many places,” the prince said. “And some have told me this. They tell me also that he did not stay the night, leaving after trading for supplies.”  
  
“Is he headed for Lys?” Eddard asked.  
  
“Further than that, my friends,” the Tattered Prince said. “I hear Volantis is his meaning, to speak with his kin behind the Black Walls.”  
  
Their faces tightened at the dire news. Soon the Dragonhunt would begin to bleed men, but even if not a soul left the shores they would not have the numbers to trouble the mightiest of Valyria’s daughters.  
  
“Not a pleasing thing, this,” Prince Mylerio drawled. “But perhaps I may lighten your mood?”  
  
“That would be most welcome,” the Blackfish snorted.  
  
“This dragon king was perhaps not as discreet as he should have been,” the sellsword prince said. “You have heard of Salladhor Saan, yes?”  
  
“The pirate,” Ser Jaime frowned.  
  
“My fellow prince,” the Pentoshi laughed. “'tis a good year for rogues. Much like me, he still seeks a princess to be his greatest joy.”  
  
“He captured them,” Ned said.  
  
“This is a tale I have heard,” the Tattered Prince said. “Another is that he sought a queen but could only take a babe, though I am told a very pretty one.”  
  
Princess Daenerys, who was only a few months. But Rhaegar mattered most of all, and as the weeks passed they learned the King That Ran still lived. There was naught they could do of that, by then, for before a fortnight had passed from the fall of Pentos they had other troubles. Myr and Tyrosh had ended their trade war, and were mustering armies.  
  
Their envoys told the Tattered Prince as much, when they called him an usurper and Braavosi puppet before declaring war on him.


	25. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> End of the first arc, so shorter chapter than usual.

The men of the Dragonhunt had been hungry, when they crossed the sea. For gold, for glory, some even for the justice that they had been told they would exact. After the fall of Pentos, they were hungry no longer. The Tattered Prince had been generous to the soldiers who had seen him to the throne. With nigh ever magister killed and their wealth confiscated, there had been the ransom of a dozen kings to split as plunder. Even levies had enough gold rings to buy a manse in the countryside, and men who could buy manses were not eager to join uncertain campaigns. The host melted like snow in summer sun, buying passage to the Seven Kingdoms with coin still bloody. In the end, two thousand remained to hold the Westerosi half of Pentos, and few lords among them.  
  
Of the northerners who had come, few stayed. Howland Reed offered, but Ned regretfully bade him away. His friend had a daughter he’d never held, and still needed a son to hold Greywater Watch after him. Maege Mormont had highest standing among those that were left, the hard-faced woman telling Eddard she’d rather die gloriously on a field in Essos than look over her nephew’s shoulder as he ruled Bear Island. Most of the hundred northerners who kept to the banner spoke words that rang the same. Old men who would walk into the snows when winter came, or young ones who were unlikely to ever hold land of their own. Ser Jaime remained and all the Lannister swords with him, for they had been sent to keep him alive above all else.  
  
Less than a hundred valemen, though many were knights, with Lyn Corbray chief among them. Ser Lyn thought little of his brother, the Lord Corbray, and would rather chance his fortune across the Narrow Sea than return and darken a hall that would never be his own. Half the soldiers from the Riverlands stayed, the largest contingent, for when Ser Brynden had brought them he’d chosen those who would have a taste for the sellsword life. For that was what the Dragonhunt was about to become, Ned understood as the days passed. It became clearest when he sat with Robert, Ser Jaime and the Blackfish in closed council. They had the beginnings of a host, but no true path for it to take. The Kingslayer was new to the seat among them, but he now held the command of more men than Eddard and so deserved to have his voice heard.  
  
“Can’t take Volantis with two thousand men,” Ser Brynden said, knife in hand. “We need more than that. And gold.”  
  
He was tearing through a plate of roasted fish, and Robert had already japed twice about trouts eating their own.  
  
“We’ve already paid back a third of what we owe the Iron Bank,” Ser Jaime said. “We could secure a greater loan.”  
  
“Not if it is meant for war on Volantis,” Ned grimly said.  
  
The envoys of the Iron Bank had been more than courteous and offered to host the captains of the Dragonhunt gloriously should they come to the Secret City, but of more coin forthcoming there had been no word. They’d offered good news, nonetheless. Gerion Lannister was alive. He’d been salvaged by a passing Ibbenese whaler when floating on driftwood, and been brought north to Braavos with it. He’d send word of gaining passage to join them soon, and should arrive within the week.  
  
“Tatters made an offer,” Robert reminded them.  
  
Ned grimaced. Prince Mylerio had spoken of aiding their struggles, though made it known he could not put the might of Pentos behind them while armies were set to besiege him. He’d offered to fund them should they fight against Myr and Tyrosh, though he had been careful to avoid calling them sellswords.  
  
“Even if we campaigned for him years, it would not be enough,” Eddard said. “And we would lose men to the work.”  
  
“Then we send for more,” the Blackfish said. “There’s no lack of willing men in the kingdoms, and boys have ever preferred swords to plows.”  
  
“And where would we train those valiant farmers, Ser Brynden?” Ser Jaime asked. “In Pentos? The Tattered Prince will not let us remain in his city long, if we do not fight for his... rights.”  
  
“Stannis has the crown, and you can be sure he’ll be a right cunt about this,” Robert frowned. “No lack of desperate men here, though. There’s beggars in every street.”  
  
“My sister’s name will mean nothing to Essossi,” Ned said.  
  
“Plunder will,” Ser Jaime said. “If we are to use foreign swords, I would prefer we train the men who wield them.”  
  
There was sense in that, Eddard would concede.  
  
“Prince Mylerio will not let us raise a host in his city that is larger than his own,” Ser Brynden said. “And that is what we need to field, if Volantis is to fall.”  
  
“You’re right,” Robert said, and Ned would always remember the glint in his eyes at that moment.  
  
The same glint as when he’d tossed the crown, the one that made him look more alive than any man who’d ever been born. It was the part of his foster-brother that was more legend than man, that had seen him topple the greatest dynasty in the known world and would seen him do greater things yet.  
  
“Then let’s get our own city,” Robert Baratheon grinned.  
  
Four men in the dark, sharing wine worth a castle and a stolen map unfurled in front of them. There would be bitter days ahead of them, and glorious ones too, but the four great captains of the Dragonhunt never forgot that quiet evening where they plotted to steal a kingdom.


	26. Westeros Interlude I

**Jon Arryn**

Jon spared thought for the boys he’d raised on the evenings, after Lysa had retired to her chambers, but during the day he seven kingdoms to keep together. The Lord of the Eyrie had believed, without arrogance, that he would be Robert’s Hand after the war. Now he found himself guiding the younger brother instead, and wished he had known the man better before taking on the duty. It was a thought unworthy of him, and he never spoke it, but neither did it ever truly leave him. The true regret was that Stannis had the make of a good and true king. The younger man had a mind for law and for stewardship, frugal inclinations that saw the treasury of a realm still healing spared unnecessary expenses and he even had an eye for talented men. What he lacked, Jon thought, was the willingness to bend. The strange mixture of flaws and virtues was dangerous as any concoction the Alchemists had ever brewed, and had first burst over the matter of Davos Seaworth. Lord Davos Seaworth, now.  
  
The smuggler was an honest and goodly man, Jon would admit, as much as one of his trade could be. And for breaking the siege of Storm’s End to bring food to the starving garrison, he deserved rewards. It was also true that the lords of the Narrow Sea who had gone into exile with Prince Rhaegar need not keep their holdings, and indeed should not. Treason could not be left to fester. Yet it had been a hard mistake to grant the Crabber Lord ruler over Claw Isle.  _A crabber’s son made to ruler over the house of red crabs_ , men japed, and it was a short tread from japing of a king’s edict to japing of the king himself. The Narrow Sea houses were old and proud, the first vassals of House Targaryen, and decried the decision. King Stannis had not answered the protests kindly. Sunglass, Bar Emmon, Velaryon. All were attainted traitors and stripped of all holdings. Most their seats were granted to men of the Stormlands, most who’d been in the garrison at Storm’s End with the king.  
  
Dragonstone alone remained without a ruling lord, kept under stewardship until Prince Steffon could come of age and take his place as prince of it. The birth of the prince was, mayhaps, the best news that the year had borne. The king had wasted no time in getting the queen with child, though given Cersei Lannister’s beauty it was no surprise. A good and healthy babe, with his mother’s hair but the quiet temperament of his father. The realm had rejoiced, as well it should. Mace Tyrell had sent a wealth of gifts, which had reluctantly amused the Lord of the Eyrie. If the man thought he could buy back the title of Warden of the South the king had granted House Florent, he was most mistaken. The names making up the Small Council had been a slap in the lord of Highgarden’s face, at least until Jon had convinced the king that Lord Seaworth would have his days taken by putting Claw Isle to rights and it would be doing him disservice to name him Master of Ships. Lord Paxter Redwyne took the seat, and was made appropriately grateful for it.  
  
The rest was not so promising, in Jon’s eyes. Lord Estermont, the king’s grandfather, was named Master of Laws. Stannis turned to him for advice oft, and the man had made show of opposing the Lord of the Eyrie at every turn. That boded ill, for though on occasion his advice was sound on others he spoke what the king wanted to hear. The entire debacle of attempting to close down the brothels of King’s Landing could be laid solely at Estermont’s feet, for he’d been the only one to praise the notion. The mistake had quietly been eased away after the worst of the mess passed, and at least it had won some favour with the High Septon. It had still made the king look a fool to a city that had little reason to love him. Lord Tywin had attempted to have a Lannister placed as Master of Coin, but the king reacted to the suggestion by naming Selwyn Tarth to the seat before nightfall. The man was not unskilled, but kept his own peace and was careful never to contradict Stannis with his words. As for the Master of Whisperers, to Jon’s distaste, Orton Merryweather had taken the seat. The man was a fool, if a courteous one, and it was a mystery how he seemed to know all that went on at court and beyond.  
  
Jon suspected his Myrish wife was the true brains of the seat. Taena Merryweather had swiftly carved herself a place as the favourite of the queen, and he would wager the Eyrie that she was the one who had friends in Essos bringing word of the madness that was spreading there. The Arryn’s sole victory had been placing Ser Mandon Moore as first member and commander of the Kingsguard. The man had dead eyes and rarely spoke, but Stannis seemed to enjoy his silences and he was a Valeman. He would remember who ruled his house, and council as Jon ordered. The capital itself was calm, now that the riots had ceased, and the city watch had never been more honest. It had taken the hanging of two successive commanders to clean the limb Aerys left to rot, one for accepting a bribe and the other for letting a Lyseni slaver ship dock, but now it was more orderly a force than it had ever been. Smallfolk trusted the sight of goldcloaks now.  
  
Would that the realm be so quiet. The bad end the Narrow Sea houses had come to had cowed the rest of the Crownlands, and it had to be said that Lord Seaworth’s formal renunciation of any rights to collect taxes from Cracklaw Point had done much to reconcile those lords to Baratheon rule, but Hoster was having troubles with his vassals. Stannis had given him leave to deal with the lords who’d supported Aerys as he wished and the few fields he’d stripped from them had gone unchallenged, but House Frey had balked at the Tullys demanding reparations in coin for the men they’d owed that had come late. Lord Walder had the envoys thrown out and Hoster called his banners to force submission. The siege of the Twins was dragging on, none of the lord of the Riverlands willing to risk a costly storm to quell a lord that had never openly risen for House Targaryen.  
  
Tensions in the Reach were rising as the Florents and Tyrells waged courtly war for primacy, but Highgarden had deeper coffers and centuries of rule on their side. That bode ill for Alester Florent. Dorne was quiet as the grave, but how long would that last? Every day Jon prayed for the Red Viper to get a knife in the back, for that man could bring a storm on the realm that it was too fragile to whether. Little was heard of the North, save that Lord Brandon ruled nothing but his sickbed. Roose Bolton had gone to collect extraordinary taxes on White Harbour in the name of the Warden of the North, House Ryswell had gained right to levy taxes on half a dozen villages of the Stone Shore and a Dustin household knight was now master-at-arms of Winterfell. Ned’s brother had got Catelyn Tully with child, at least, but the cripple ruling the North had three regents in all but name. Yet it was not these kingdoms that troubled Jon most.  
  
Balon Greyjoy had still sent no raven or man to pay fealty, and it was said he had summoned the lords of the Iron Islands to Pyke.  
  
-

**Catelyn Stark**

Catelyn had once thought herself in love with Brandon Stark. She still tried very hard to be, for happy marriages did not come from idleness. Yet the man who called her to bed once a sennight did not look like the Brandon she’d known, did not smell like him or feel like him or talk like him. Still she went, dutiful, and she had given birth to a beautiful baby boy. Rickon, she’d name him. Brandon had not argued otherwise, for he’d first held their child two days later and only shortly. His brother Benjen had, as soon as the midwives let him into the room, and there lay the trouble. She’d flinched, the first time she’d heard that Rickon looked more like Benjen Stark than her husband. The poisonous whispers of her spending more hours with Brandon’s youngest brother than the Lord of Winterfell himself had not been far behind. Lady Barbey Dustin told her as much, for Lord Dustin’s wife liked to pretend her cruelty was kindness.

  
Benjen was soon sent to foster at Last Hearth under the Umbers, and Catelyn allowed herself to feel relief but it was short-lived. Three months into the fostering Benjen had joined the men of Last Heath to beat back a wildling raid, saving Mors Umber’s life and single-handedly slaying a monster who called himself the Weeper. Whispers of the Stark blood telling true spread through Winterfell, and the word Ned was heard on the lips of soldiers who still glared at the Dustins that now gave them orders in Brandon’s name. Catelyn was growing to hate Eddard Stark, who had seemed to quiet and dutiful in Riverrun but was now the bane of her marriage. No servant spoke that name before the Lord of Winterfell, not since the girl who had was whipped out of the keep. Before the week was done Benjen Stark had been recalled to the keep, the fostering broken. No Umber had set foot in Winterfell since.  
  
Roose Bolton had returned from White Harbour, bringing back coin much begrudged that went into Arbor Red from traders and a silk dress for Barbrey Dustin. Catelyn tried very hard not to think of what it meant that Lady Dustin had replaced the maester in taking care of her husband, or of who might truly be the father of the child she was swelling with. Surely Lord Dustin would not have remained in Winterfell, if it were so? Lord Bolton brought back Manderly cousins as handmaidens as well, and though it was a balm to have girls who held to the Seven at her side Catelyn did notice they sometimes absented themselves, after supper, when her husband retreated to his solar. Manderly men were fat, it was said, but their women buxom. Catelyn Stark stood quiet in the halls of Winterfell, a ghost in her own life that no northerner cared to come to know. There was not even a sept, here, and prayer felt hollow.

-  
  
**Balon Greyjoy**

Balon had sworn oaths to no stag. This he knew, and knew well. His father had been too weak to rule, took timid to see that the war could have gained the ironborn great things had they backed the rebels. He’d died for his weakness, and all the better. He would not have been able to see what Balon saw now, that the age of reaving had come again. The Lord Reaper looked upon the greenlands and found only weakness. The only men of the lesser kingdoms worth being called warriors had crossed the Narrow Sea, and to rule their houses they had left behind a cripple and fool boy who only knew how to starve. The Reach took orders by a fat idiot, and half the Redwyne fleet gone under the sea. The Wolf Lord had torched the last of the royal fleet in Pentos, Euron said, and now what was left to match the ships of the ironborn?  
  
Balon had once meant to wait, to build an Iron Fleet that would reave the known world, but there was no need to delay. What did her fear Lannister galleys and the cowards of the Shield Islands? No, now was the time to strike and claim back the driftwood crown of his forbears. The North was a dying beast, the Riverlands fighting their own and the Lord of the Eyrie an old man who couldn’t even fuck a child into his pretty Tully wife. No kingdom was match for Balon Greyjoy and his brothers. The maesters said the old kingdom of the Isles had died with the dragons, but they knew nothing of the Drowned God.  _What is dead may never die, but rises again, harder and stronger._ Hundreds of ships set sail from Pyke, and Quellon’s worthiest son found his destiny at last.


	27. Westeros Interlude II

**Hoster Tully**  
  
You could see the smoke, even from here. Hoster was tired, gods, but he must press on. The Trident was too far from settled and he would not give his only son a reign that was set to splinter. How eager rivermen always were to forsake their oaths, to kings both foreign and sprung from the river. Hoster’s line had ruled the Riverlands ably and justly since Aegon’s day, and for this they had been repaid with insult and injury. Mooton, Darry, Ryger and Goodbrook. What other great lord had seen so many of their vassals fly the Targaryen banner? Loyalty to Riverrun had gone down the river, to wash up against the shores of the Bay of Crabs. He would not let this pass gently. The king stood behind him in this, for his old friend Jon Arryn stood behind the king, and for their slights Hoster had scraped the disloyal men raw. Acorn Hall took half the Goodbrook fields, Darry lost cattle and farmland to House Roote and House Mooton he bled most of all. Half their tariffs from Maidenpool now belonged to Riverrun. Willow Wood lost only hostages, the boy Tristan to be raised with Edmure, for the Rygers had been the first to recant their treason.  
  
Brynden was on the far side of the world, and still the stubborn mule was making a mess of Hoster’s rule. Never mind the slap in the face that his own brother running away to Essos to play the adventurer had been, the Lord of Riverrun had needed him for a wedding. The notion had been to strip the Freys of their seat for their treachery, having his brother wed one of the many daughters and to after have a leal House Tully of the Twins to rely on if sickness took him before Edmure came of age. Instead the Blackfish was traipsing some dusty plain, killing Myrmen as if it were any great thing. No, other plans had to be made. And so Hoster had traded with the lions, for the wolves were spent and squabbling and the falcon bound to the capital. Emmon Frey would have the Twins, and Tywin’s sister have a keep of her own. And in return, Edmure would have a bride from Casterly Rock. Jaime Lannister’s first daughter was promised to his son, or his pick of the lesser lines should the man fail to make one in a timely manner. There should not be long to wait. King Robert’s edict had, it must be remembered, first stripped Ser Jaime of the white cloak before sending him across the sea.  
  
He could marry, now, and already Lord Tywin was seeking brides across the realm.  
  
Hoster would have been amused at the talk of the parade of well-bred young ladies that would be sent to pay court to the Young Lion, had he not been watching the siege of the Twins go astray. Cornering Walder had been hard labour, for the old weasel was not without cunning and the king had only given the Tullys leave to deal with the lords who’d sided with the Targaryens. Walder had been too cautious to do so, but his late levies had been excuse enough to ask for coin. He could not be given leave to accept this, so Hoster had ordered his envoys to behave so atrociously they would be thrown out. A girl, he was told, had been stripped naked. It was her husband who’d lost temper and thrown out the envoys. It had been enough. The banners were called, and there began the trouble. They came, the proud riverlords. But their numbers were not what they should have been. Brynden had bled the Trident dry of the brave and the desperate, with his ships come to recruit. King Stannis had shown foresight in forbidding it from continuing.  
  
Lord Walder had full granaries, a well-built keep and had refused all talk of surrender. On the third day of the siege half a dozen of his sons had been thrown over the walls by catapult, and rumour had it they were those who’d attempted to seize the keep from their father. Emmon Frey and his wife were now guests in Casterly Rock, and so in this matter at least Hoster need not grind his teeth. With his lords less than eager to storm the walls, it had been three months of dull siege that followed. Until now. Hoster looked up to the sky, and saw the smoke in the distance. Seaguard had fallen. Balon Greyjoy himself seized it by surprise, butchering everyone inside the walls before setting the keep aflame and leaving with holds full of plunder. So much for the few galleys Hoster could command. Now his riverlords pressed him to make truce with Walder, to end the matter without rancour, but Hoster Tully would not have it. How many of them could truly be trusted? How quickly lords turned on Riverrun. No, Edmure would have his Lannister bride and her watchful grandfather beyond the Golden Tooth to give rebels pause. Whatever the cost.  
  
“Storm the walls,” he ordered.

-  
  
 **Tywin Lannister**  
  
“The defenses held,” Kevan said.  
  
As well they should have. Tywin was no Hoster Tully, to be so taken with river squabbles that he forgot to see to his borders. The ironborn could not be trusted. Quellon had been willing to trade, but his sons were reavers one and all. As soon as the man was dead, measures had to be taken. As soon as it became known that Balon Greyjoy had given no oath to the throne, the Lord of Casterly Rock saw to the defenses of Lannisport. Ravens were sent to the Crag, Faircastle, Kayce and even Crakehall. There were to be men watching the coasts, signals to be lit if the ironborn set sail. Faircastle had fallen, even prepared, but Lannisport had not and neither had the others. The would-be-king in Pyke had not lost his strength, but the blow had been blunted.  
  
“Prisoners were taken,” Tywin said, for his brother was in too light a mood for otherwise.  
  
“Victarion Greyjoy is dead,” Kevan began. “Thrown off the docks by Sandor Clegane, and he sunk straight at the bottom. He wore full plate, you see.”  
  
A fool had died a fool’s dead. But Balon had lost one of his better captains, and the Clegane boy was only thirteen and had shown promise. Reward had been earned, and the Mountain may yet be replaced.  
  
“Confirm him as knight of Clegane’s Keep,” Tywin said. “We will find him a fitting wife.”  
  
Ser Raynard Ruttiger had a daughter, and was a landed knight himself. He would spare the matter thought when the war was done. The Lord of the Rock eyed his brother, who did not seem done.  
  
“Stafford has Rodrik Greyjoy,” his brother said. “He was caught trying to set fire to our ships.”  
  
Balon’s heir. No, unfortunately, his only. The man had two to spare, and brothers as well. The capture still had value. Little of the royal fleet had been built, no more than a tenth, and the Redwyne fleet had been weakened in the hunt for Rhaegar. It was no coincidence that Euron Greyjoy, the most dangerous of the brothers, had not been seen. The Reach would suffer the sword. The Starks had no strength at sea, and the Tullys had already lost what few galleys they had along with Seaguard. The westerlands would stand alone, until enough ships could be brought to bear. Measures would have to be taken to spare the west from the depredations of reavers.  
  
“Greyjoy still holds Faircastle,” Tywin said.  
  
It was not a question, yet Kevan nodded. Balon Greyjoy thought to trifle with the lands of House Lannister. He had earned a sharp lesson.  
  
“Send him his heir’s finger,” the Lord of the Rock said. “With a message. For every sennight he keeps Faircastle, another piece will follow.”

-  
  
 **Orton Merryweather**  
  
The king was in a dark mood. He had been ever since Balon Greyjoy declared himself king of the Isles, and the storm was unlikely to abate until the man was dead. Stannis Baratheon was not above having his displeasure felt by the men who served him on the Small Council, but today at least Orton would be spared his ire.  
  
“Their king has given them a command, Lord Redwyne,” Stannis said. “All other work will cease until the royal fleet has been built.”  
  
“It could take months, Your Grace,” the Lord of the Arbor hesitated. “If they keep to the hours you have ordered, men may die of exhaustion.”  
  
“Men have died already,” Lord Estermont said. “To reavers. They should count themselves fortunate to be spared that trouble.”  
  
The king’s grandfather earned a nod of approval at that from the man wearing the crown. Small victories, grinding away at Jon Arryn’s patience one day at a time. It was obvious to Orton that the Stormlander meant to wrest the handship from Lord Arryn, but he would have to work better wiles if he was to accomplish this. The Lord of the Eyrie was too competent a Hand for Stannis to dismiss him over such trifles. The king, it had to be said, prized usefulness above all else.  
  
“Then I will see to it the hours are kept, Your Grace,” Lord Paxter said, pointedly ignoring Estermont.  
  
“Lord Merryweather,” King Stannis barked.”You are my Master of Whisperers, are you not?”  
  
“I am, Your Grace,” Orton agreed.  
  
It was an effort not to wince at the tone. Was it truly so hard for men to be courteous? He’d never found it a great toil, and he was not a great character.  
  
“Then give me whispers,” the king said, grinding his teeth.  
  
The queen had told Taena, once, that should grain be put in her husband’s mouth he would be the most miraculous mill in the realm. It had not been meant kindly. Orton cleared his throat, for he had no good news to give save perhaps of the campaign of the Dragonhunt against Myr and Tyrosh. The king took good word there as bad, though, and so the matter could be left to another day.  
  
“The North will send no one,” he said.  
  
“All great lords were given a command,” Lord Arryn said sharply.  
  
He was no bosom friend to the king, this one, and would have preferred the older brother to wear the crown. But he did not brook disrespect to the Iron Throne.  
  
“Lord Brandon begs off, and says his wayward brother has depleted the strength of the North by taking it across the sea,” Orton said. “With Bear Island having fallen to reavers, what few men he has must see to his own shores.”  
  
“Robert,” the king erupted, but mastered himself. “Send another raven. There will be men from the North, or there will be a reckoning.”  
  
 _They will ignore you_ , Orton thought, but did not say.  _No southern army has ever taken the Neck and we cannot afford a third war in three years. Not even with Lannister gold._  He nodded.  
  
“Dorne will be sending five thousand spearmen, and acceded to joining their fleet to the royal one,” Lord Merryweather said.  
  
That much appeased the king, and from there he turned his eyes to other councillors. After dark Orton slipped into the streets of the capital, and found the small manse that was uninhabited. A tunnel under a table led him to a stinking sewer, where a torch already burned. The man awaiting him was portly, gruff and spoke coarsely. His beard was rough, and his clothes smelled of a tanner’s work. He and his fellows were the reason for Orton’s fortune, and he treated them with great courtesy in every thing.  
  
“You left a mark in the gardens, my friend,” Lord Merryweather said.  
  
The man spat to the side.  
  
“Got word from the little birds,” he said. “Shield Islands were hit by Euron Greyjoy and half the Greyjoy fleet with him. Only Southshield holds, under siege.”  
  
“Gods,” Orton shivered. “He is mad. They will destroy his house for this.”  
  
“Not my place to speak on that,” the man dismissed.  
  
The Lord of Longtable covered him in flattery before they parted, and did not forget to slip him the purse weighed with dragons. Orton had never met Varys, unlike his father, but he blessed the eunuch’s name. After the Spider had fled back to Essos, the men who handled his  _little birds_  for him had sought another paymaster. All that was needed in exchange was coin, and the occasional small favour. A worthy price, he believed, for the honour of being Master of Whisperers.


	28. Westeros Interlude III

**Roose Bolton**  
  
Realms, much like men, were best purged of bad blood. It amused Roose, on occasion, to think that there were men who must believe him the worst of blood. How little they knew. Taking the reins in Winterfell with his… fellows when Lord Brandon returned had been a natural and easy thing, much sought by the cripple himself.  _So few I can trust_ , he murmured often when the poppy took.  _But you are true, Roose, are you not?_  How desperate the Stark was to believe some in the North still loved him. Lady Barbrey provided him the soothing words that bade him return to his little distractions, words Lord Brandon did not trust his wife to speak. William Dustin’s wife had dug the gap early and well, using the once-widespread whispers that Eddard Stark should wed the Tully in truth. For all that, the babe in her belly was no Stark bastard. Dustin’s get and put in her before she came to Winterfell, if the Barrowton men he’d put to the question could be believed.  
  
The Warden of the North believed otherwise. A fine farce, this one. Ferreting out her game had been an interesting spent of his days. The Dustin men numbered as many as the Stark swords in Winterfell, now, and through Lady Barbrey’s whispers the Lord of Barrowton had earned much favour. They were both despised for it, impatient creatures that they were. Roose had been most willing to let them take the burden of surrounding Lord Brandon, and be remembered as the worst of the Three Regents, as some already named them in whispers. Even as House Dustin and House Ryswell grew in wealth and power, the Boltons trailed behind them. Roose had made himself seem reluctant, when treating with the Manderlys, a mild man attempting to gentle harsh orders. Lord Wyman had been wary, but not so wary as to spurn his moderation of Lord Brandon’s demand. There lay, he often thought, the irony of it.  
  
The regents were blamed for leading Brandon Stark astray, but in truth they were all that stood between the North and its Warden’s darker whims. Forcing tribute on House Manderly had been Lord Brandon’s chastisement for its lord lending his younger brother their ships, a notion even Rodrik Ryswell had balked at. Wylan Manderly commanded many men, and some of the largest coffers in the North. Two pretty cousins as handmaids to Lady Stark had been Roose’s trade for a lessened tribute, one Lord Brandon was now partaking in eagerly. Lady Barbrey encouraged it. She has soon tired of what was left of the man she’d once been so very fond of. Refusing men to the king had been another whim borne of poppy and wine, crafted of spite against the house that had gained a throne for his suffering. Lord Stark had been prevailed on to send two thousand levies south after the raven with the harsher demands came, a thin token of allegiance.  
  
Bear Island had fallen to the reavers without warning, long before word of the raids south of the Neck came. The keep had been sacked and Lord Jorah Mormont put to the sword, his barren Glover wife taken by some ironman captain a salt-wife. Winterfell had not been swift to give answer, for the ironborn had been said to bring fire to the Stony Shore and Lord Ryswell eager to see those villages trembling. Even as Brandon Stark frothed in his bed and screamed of slaughtering all the squids, the host of Winterfell remained unmoved. Supplies for the march were still being gathered, Lord William told his old friend. Ryswell horse scattered the raiders, earning hateful tribute for the protection, and soiled was the name of House Stark. Roose had approved of the matter in closed council, but implied displeasure to other lords. The patience had borne fruit, and on a misty morning Benjen Stark had approached him in the depths of the godswood.  
  
Lord Benjen had soured on his brother, even before the Umber matter. Harsh words had been traded before his departure and return, then even harsher ones over Bear Island. The younger man had threatened to take the black if the Lord of Winterfell did not pay heed to his words, only to find himself forbidden to do so. Starks did have fire in the blood, for all their posturing. From that day on he had worn only black, a slight that had his brother enraged. And yet, for all the love he now gained from Stark men, young Benjen he did not have the influence to see Lord Brandon’s will defied. Not without a friend in Winterfell. Roose professed the ancient allegiance of his house to the Starks, and had the postern gate opened at night. With the youngest Stark brother went the hardened veterans that had served in the Dragonhunt, Umber and Reed and Tallhart. Fishing boats saw them to the island, and the dark of night was filled with ironborn screams.  
  
The men who’d served under Ned Stark had been made hard iron. It was fortunate the man had not returned to the North, for Roose found him to be unsettling. Lord Eddard was a man capable of dark things, if he thought them just.  
  
Victory against the ironborn, and with it yet more squabbles. By right Maege Mormont now held Bear Island, but she served under the Dragonhunt in Essos. Whispers spread of the child in Lady Barbrey being named to rule it instead, and with the whispers discontent. Roose spoke only or regency, ‘til she returned, though to Lord Brandon he mused that should Mormont die on a foreign field a regent would be well-placed for succession. But when the victors returned to Winterfell, it was with talk that Lord Benjen had won Bear Island by right of conquest. The veterans behind him were wealthy from the sack of Pentos, and taught to look for a Stark to follow above all other men. And so Benjen Stark was sent south to join the host of King Stannis, Lord Brandon laughing that if he was so eager for war he could fight for the southern king. A mistake. Too many had gone south with him, men who’d killed on Bear Island but the banners of other lords as well. Hornwood and Karstark, who spoke in their cups that it was no treason to follow a Stark even if another wished it not.  
  
And so the Lord of the Dreadfort watched and waited, speaking soft words behind doors and sending them to faraway keeps on black wings. Roose was a patient man. He could wait, until the Starks and their partisans were spent. When the ashes cooled, there would be need to bind the wounds of the North. And who better than the man who had been trying to keep it together? Roose Bolton smiled in the dark, and thought of red kings and red crowns.

-  
  
 **Paxter Redwyne**  
  
The Citadel sent the ravens that told of the passing of the year, and the words sent the king in cold fury. The Seven Kingdoms were not yet made whole again. King’s Landing had not seen a single reaver sail, and yet men still died beneath its walls by the score. Timber was felled night and day, carpenters plying their trade by torchlight and shipwrights trading coin for sleep. The royal fleet grew, from twenty ships to a hundred and then twice that number. King Stannis cared not for the costs, so long as the masts that would take war Balon Greyjoy rose in the port. The Hand of the King brought all the ships the Vale had to boast, ravens were sent from every coast from Duskendale to Sunspear to send galleys north to the muster until a fleet that would match the ironborn was assembled.  _It was too late_ , Paxter thought. It had been done faster than any but a madman could ask for, but it had been too late. Balon Greyjoy had proved the Old Way still breathed.  
  
The Lord of the Arbor had thought Greyjoy a fool, when he’d learned of where his fleets had sailed. He’d split them too widely, taking war to Lannisport and Seaguard as well the Shield Islands and Bear Island, of all places. What thing of fucking worth could be found on Bear Island? But Balon had played them all for fools. When Hightower ships bolstered by his own Redwyne fleet had thought themselves numerous enough to scatter the ironborn near the Reach, they’d found no fight in the enemy. Euron Greyjoy left behind a dozen longships to slow them and fled up the coast. The Reachmen pursued, glory in their damn fool eyes, and were caught between Balon’s fleet and his brother’s near Feastfires. It was hard fighting, but the ironborn claimed victory and two dozen ships as well. What remained of the strength of the Reach at sea limped back to the Arbor, and at least saved Paxter’s lands the worst of it in what came after. The likes of the reaving months that followed, as the royal fleet was built, had not been seen since the Red Kraken. The ironmen numbered few, aye, but with the Sunset Sea as their moat they were untouchable.  
  
Oldtown held, thank the Sevens, against chancy attack on the port. But Bandallon, Blackcrown and Three Towers were sacked. The Shield Islands fell again, all of them. The rich fields south of Highgarden were torched, and the men of House Tyrell saw dark sails loom in the distance from their high walls. The ironborn gave no battle to any host, coming as ghosts and leaving rich with plunder and women. The Westerlands weathered the storm best, for they were spared the bickering and confusion that came from a Lord Paramount and a Warden of the South giving differing orders to lords. Fair Isle remained ironborn and a reavers’ nest, yet the castles on the coast were swelled with Lannister men who rode down any ironborn fool enough to tread too far away from their ships. The Riverlands lost villages, but no keep save for Seaguard and that was swiftly retaken never to be lost again. As for the North, few knew and few cared. Brandon Stark dithering over sending men south before his own brother defied him had won him no friends there.  
  
The youngest wolf, Benjen the Black, was much loved in the Riverlands these days. The men his other brother had blooded in Essos had fought furiously to keep the ironborn from venturing deeper into the Trident, the boy at the vanguard of every skirmish. Tytos Blackwood and Jonos Bracken were said to have nearly come to blows when they both learned the other had offered one of their own in marriage. It had been a long year, Paxter thought, of waiting as the wolves of the sea had their fill. But now the beast was fat and his own fleet rough with hatred. Fury, he smiled. That was the name King Stannis had given his great galley, and the hard man would captain it himself when they set sail on the morrow. Justice was coming for the Isles, and it would not be gentle.  
  
-

 **Aeron Greyjoy**  
  
Aeron had loved his brother, his king, but Balon had killed them all. It had been glorious, at first. The seas theirs again, the greenlanders shivering in terror wherever their sails were glimpsed. Yet his brother had made a promise, on Pyke. That with the victory of the Drowned God’s own, splintering of the Seven Kingdoms would follow. All his other promises had come to pass and some he had never even spoken, but not this one, and it would be the end of them.  _Stannis Baratheon is no true king_ , they’d said.  _Just a boy who didn’t even earn his crown, and when he shows weakness they will turn on him._  But oh, how wrong they had been. There had been no rebellion, no treachery.  _We have united Seven Kingdoms in hatred of the ironborn, bound his reign for him._  And now it was all going to fall apart. Aeron could feel it in his bones, the same way he knew the tides and the winds.  
  
They said the stag’s fleet had few ships more than theirs, for the ironborn had seized lumber and galleys in their reaving and thousands of thralls to make more longships for then. Balon had ordered the building of a great Iron Fleet, longships so large they could be made to bear scorpions and other instruments of war, and men had hailed him so loudly Nagga’s Bones shook. They saw only everlasting victory ahead of them, the old glories come again. Aeron had thought this as well, until the Reader had smiled sadly at him. Rodrik Harlaw was a queer man, but not unwise, and in that moment Aeron had sought to steady his nerves.  
  
“After we scatter King Stag’s fleet fleet,” Aeron had said, “we can sack Oldtown, you and I. You will have all the books in the world.”  
  
“Ah,” Lord Rodrik said. “A cold comfort, this. How many will I live to read?”  
  
“No other men are the match of the ironborn at sea,” Aeron had laughed.  
  
“Mayhaps we will beat back this fleet,” the Reader mused. “But what of the one that comes after that? They have many forests, Aeron.”  
  
The cold, stark understanding had sunk into his mind, after that. Even if they killed Stannis, the king had a son. Young but with men to rule for him, and those men would not relent until they saw the driftwood crown broken.  _How many fleets can we triumph over?_  No, Aeron thought, that was a fool’s question. The Seven Kingdoms would grind them to dust one warrior at a time, if they must. They could trade a dozen knights for every ironman and still be able to afford the bargain. Balon had made them all play the finger dance, and they would keep dancing the blade until no fingers were left. Once he saw it, he could not unsee it. Euron had taken to watching him, and the fear that brought was an older one. Balon had come to love him too much for his cleverness, love him enough he would not look too closely at how he filled his days. It was when Euron’s eyes turned to the children, though, that Aeron made his decisions. Maron was near a man grown, but Asha and Theon still but children drunk on songs and their father’s glory. The Reader helped, for they were his nephews and niece. Aeron begged him to come with them, but Rodrik Harlaw would remain with his sister to the bitter end. He would not hear otherwise.  
  
“Tell them a story, one day,” the other man whispered. “Of a fool crowned in driftwood, and the dream that was glorious ‘til we woke.”  
  
The children did not want to come, but he forced them into the hold. Better they hate him, for at least for this they would be alive. The youngest of the Greyjoy brothers slipped by the royal fleet in the dark, as it took back the Shield Islands, and headed east. They said the Stepstones were ruled by a prince, one that took in any captain willing to fight under his banner.  
  
By the end of the year, of the four brothers that had lived when Balon took the crown only Aeron still drew breath. The dream had been glorious, but like all things it had ended.  
  
\--  
  
 **Greyjoy Rebellion** , 284-285 A.C.  
  
The last naval engagement was the Battle of Fair Isle, a decisive Baratheon victory settled by the Lannister fleet sallying from Lannisport to take the Greyjoy fleet in the back. Formally ended at the Siege of Pyke when the hall was breached. No surrender was given, and Balon Greyjoy publicly executed on the shores after his defeat. In the aftermath, the paramountcy of the Iron Islands was dissolved and replaced by the office of Warden of the Isles, granted to Lord Tygett Lannister until death. Thralldom was abolished by decree of the Iron Throne and the Iron Islands in perpetuity forbidden to build any ship larger than a fishing boat, save by permission of the Warden of the Isles. All ironborn houses to participate in the rebellion stripped of their holdings, replaced with highborn men of the Seven Kingdoms. Three further uprisings would follow within the decade, until the Iron Throne outlawed the practice of the faith of the Drowned God after the final purge of Old Wyk.


	29. Chapter 25

Men called it the sunset town.

The Dragonhunt had entered the Tattered Prince’s pay, the Blackfish negotiating for price like a Maidenpool fishwife, and so Ned had gone to war with two of Valyria’s daughters. This one would not be like the last. They had not understood, early on, the weight of what had taken place at the Battle of the Stones. The Company of the Cat was gone, the Stormcrows in Prince Mylerio’s service and the Second Sons as well. Gylo Rhegan and his Long Lances had stood aside, swearing not to serve any enemy of the Tattered Prince for ten years but reluctant to enter the man’s service. It was Robert that saw it through, sharing drinks with the man until a drunken pact was struck. The Lances would fight with the Dragonhunt, but not take the coin of the Prince of Pentos. A strange thing, the pride of men. Rhegan must know that the gold Robert paid him with came from the Tattered Prince, yet taking the coin from the Lord of the Dragonhunt instead of Prince Mylerio was tolerable veil.

Six months they had been campaigning now, and Eddard was only now grasping how the battle meant to break Rhaegar had changed the lay of the land, here. There were almost no great companies left. The Company of the Rose had been bought by Tyrosh, but they numbered less than a thousand. And the Golden Company, which could have undone them all. Volantis had saved them the trouble. With Myr and Tyrosh turned to war and Lys watching from the sides, the Triarchs had decided the time was ripe for war. Not against the old Triarchy, but to reclaim an older possession. The Golden Company marched up the Rhoyne in the name of Volantis, Norvos and Qohor rising to beat them back. Rumours of what unfolded there were muddled and not worth trusting, but it was certain battle had been given.  _ No matter _ , the Blackfish had said. It would take months or years before the war was settled, and the Golden Company was said never to break a contract. The two Daughters had to scrape the bottom of the barrel for their host, hiring every sellsword company in reach no matter how small or disreputable.

Myr fielded crossbowmen as well, freemen in the pay of the magisters. Tyrosh put five thousand guards in glistening armour and readied them for war, the Archon himself taking the field to lead them. They’d struck hard and early, thinking the Tattered Prince’s hold on Pentos would weak and the city would turn on him after the first defeat. A costly mistake. The ranks of the Windblown had swelled with the former Cats and more from desperate Pentoshi, now eight thousand strong and many of them hardened to war. Prince Mylerio had turned the Tyroshi landing south of the Flatlands into a butcher’s yard, driving them back into the sea. Tyrosh fled at sea, and in the months that followed set to gathering an even greater host. The Dragonhunt had been circling the headwaters of the Sea of Myrth then, the Long Lances and the Second Sons with them. Robert sought battle, but the Myrish gave ground after hearing of the Pentoshi defeat. They retreated to Lhorulu, and sent for more Myrmen and sellswords.

The Tattered Prince’s swift answer had bought them time, but only a fool would have called that battle a pivot in the war. Barely two thousand Tyroshi had died on the shore. Many more would come. The Windblown returned to their lair in Pentos, the prince keeping a wary eye on Tyrosh and titling Robert his  _ Captain of the South _ before tossing him command of the war against Myr. That was, Ned thought, when the madness had begun. The Dragonhunt and the other companies had made permanent camp at near the Sea of Myrth’s headwaters and begun raiding the lands of Myr, Robert trying to force the Myrmen to march or disperse. It was half a success: horse sallied out to meet horse, skirmishes taking place in the field at least once a sennight. The first time they took some magister’s country manse, Robert seized all the wealth within but freed all the slaves. No more than a hundred, servants and fieldhands and a few pleasure girls. Half of them returned to camp with the Baratheon. It happened again, when another field was taken, and though Ned had not understood it at the time it was as if they’d thrown a stone in a pond that had been still for centuries.

_ The Dragonhunt will end slavery _ , the whispers spread.  _ They will break the chains and the magisters with them. _ Slaves all over the region began to flee north, breaking out of pens and manses and fields. The Myrmen hastily broke camp and marched to quell the unrest, but it was too late. There would be stomping out these embers when hope came riding under the crowned stag banner, striking without warning at knots of dispersed slavers. Half the northern march of Myr had taken fire in a month, and the Captain of the South was fanning the flames one booming laugh at a time. It could not last forever. The southern army did not have the numbers to hold the territories they raided, and the scaled tilted further when furious magisters sent ten thousand Myrmen north to drown the unrest in blood. A dozen massacres bloomed and grew, slaves killed by the thousands and forced back into chains. But it took months for Myr to gain back control, and by then other matters had changed as well.

Ser Brynden had sailed back to the Seven Kingdoms and seven hundred men came back with him, a hundred of them knights. A handful had even served in the Dragonhunt before, but spent their fortunes on wine and women and fine meals in a matter of months. The Westerosi were welcome, but when the Blackfish came back last it was with grim news. King Stannis had expelled the recruiters of the Dragonhunt and ordered his great lords to do the same. The order was not strictly enforced, Ser Brynden said, but there would be no more grand reinforcements. Only a discrete trickle of glory- hungry youths, signing on from winesinks and backwater ports. Ned was relieved, when he heard. By then, he had more men than he could deal with. Robert had left him to grow the host and lead the camp, returning from his forays only ever few weeks and handing him another few hundred slaves to deal with. The camp was no longer a camp, it was a town with more souls dwelling within than half the towns in the North.

There were over twelve thousand men and women in the sunset town, now. Ned had not slept a full night in months, ensuring that the freedmen and the sellswords did not starve or quarrel themselves to death. The tents of the Dragonhunt and the other sellswords were replaced by huts, and he ordered them kept separate from the rest. Along the shore mud bricks turned into a shanty town where children played in the muck and women caught crabs and fish for the cookpots. A mob of thousands, and it would all perish if he could not keep it fed. Eddard turned to maps and escaped slaves, to find where granaries and manses could be raided in the northern march, and let Robert loose on them. Every time the horse of the Dragonhunt returned, now, it was with grain and food that could be distributed to the freedmen. And they loved Robert for it, for the careless generosity he offered so willingly.

Ned put them to work, building ramparts of mud and wood around the town. He saw to it that latrines were dug and when it became clear that no one would step forward to keep them cleaned and that the sellswords would not hear of the work, Eddard decreed that the freedmen were to choose five among them as representatives. Four men and a woman, a former pleasure slave who’d survived the loss of her youth by proving herself clever and able with numbers. This council he used to force order onto the mess. A watch was formed, a hundred young men with clubs that were to keep the peace in the town. He had northmen keep an eye on them, for he would brook no bribes or extortion. All other weapons were forbidden, save for those of the sellswords. The latrines were to be emptied every dawn, the men responsible for it drawn by lots. For the diseased he had tents raised away from the town, and those with knowledge of herbs or midwifing were sent to treat them.

Rationing was begun, for the supplies of the Dragonhunt could not be spared and there was only so much grain to offer. The few who knew how to fish or willingness to learn were sent to scour the river, though it would have been fool’s fancy to believe what they caught would be enough to feed the town standing alone. There were troubles of other nature as well. The first rapist to be caught was beheaded, his property given to the woman injured and his body burned. Still, many of the former bed slaves knew no other trade and sought men to attach themselves to. Eddard was known as lord of the camp and second of the Dragonhunt, and so spent a long week avoiding coy glances before being taken a lost cause. Not all of his men were so restrained. Bellies swelled with children, and to Ned’s despair no less than seven were Robert’s. He had huts built for the pregnant, the slope they were on swiftly earning the name of  _ Bastard Hill _ . To keep record of it all, all freedmen with knowledge of letters and numbers were drafted as scribes, a pair of young but dutiful Lyseni siblings serving as his own.

All the while, he had a more urgent duty to see through. Slaves fresh to freedom were willing to fight for it, for they were young and hale and unknowing of the horrors of war. Women, too. Maege Mormont and her eldest daughter took two dozen hardy women in their service and began training them as shield maidens. The first three hundred, Ned welcomed with open arms. They were fieldhands and servants, but no strangers to work and burningly eager to learn without a whip on their back. It was when the number rose to six hundred he first glimpsed the trouble. He had men in spades, but no armament for them. Ser Gerion, who Robert still amusedly titled the Admiral of the Dragonhunt even without his ship, was tasked with securing them steel. Pentos was emptied of it, save what the Tattered Prince meant for his own men, and so it was Braavos that robbed them over the price. Mail and castle steel for all would have ruined them. Spears and boiled leather, with halfmail and swords for those that showed the most promise.

When Myr finally settled the unrest that had plagued it, the Dragonhunt had come to number five thousand.

“I have a thousand more who want to serve, but we are beggaring ourselves feeding and arming those we have,” Ned told Robert.

Twice more Ser Gerion had gone north and returned with arms. They were making rich men richer, in Braavos.

“We can borrow more,” Robert said.

“From whom?” Ned asked gravely. “We must secure arms otherwise.”

His foster-brother laughed.

“Ned,” he grinned. “Are you asking me to beat an army so we can plunder its armoury?”

Eddard grimaced. He supposed he was.

“We have enough men for a proper campaign now, even without Tatters,” Robert mused. “Summon the captains, then. Time we put the fear of the Seven in those slaving fucks.”


	30. Chapter 26

“Sixteen thousand men,” the Ser Brynden said. “That’s what they sent north, and you’re all fools if you think that’s the whole of what they can muster.”

“Our foot can take thrice their number,” Ser Jaime said. “And their cavalry is shite, Blackfish. They always break under a good charge.”

The Lannister did not speak falsely. Ned had not been on any of the forays himself, but he had tallies of the dead and wounded. Myr’s mounted men were freeriders and the sons of wealthy families that could furbish them with horse and armour. Neither held fast when struck in strength by Westerosi heavy horse. Yet it would not matter, if all the horse of Myr was arrayed against what the Dragonhunt could muster. They would drown the knights by numbers alone. The raids had only been easy victories because numbers were close and the enemy dispersed and unknowing of where Robert would ride. They could no longer rely on this.

“Our foot from the Seven Kingdoms, maybe,” Ser Brynden conceded. “The Unshackled are green as grass.”

Also a truth. The Dragonhunt had once fought under a dozen banners, one for every lord, but no more. Weavers in the camp had made tall banners for the company to bear, a red dragon pierced by a lance. The former slaves had earned the name the Blackfish called them by through hanging their old broken shackles from the standards they bore. It was an eerie thing, Ned would admit. The clink of iron chains in the wind was a haunting tune. For all that, the two thousand freedmen were unblooded and without the mail and plate that made the Dragonhunt’s old foot so ferocious in the face of scarcely equipped sellswords and militia. Robert leaned over the map, a cup of plundered Lyseni wine in hand, and traced the roads thoughtfully with a large finger. Iron scraps made into the semblance of snails and lace by a smith in Pentos stood scattered across the inked hide, standing for the hosts they knew the lay and number of.

Captain Istarion of the Second Sons had proved worth his weight in gold for this, for Inkpots always seemed to know more than he should. Paymasters always had a few friends in odd places, even former ones, he’d said when asked where all these whispers came from. _A Master of Whispers in all but name_ , Eddard thought. The balding man had a seat in every council of the Captain of the South for it, save for the ones where only the four of them convened. Sellswords could only be trusted so much, more so those in the pay of other men. The snails that stood for Tyrosh were less spread than the lace that stood for Myr. One on the island-fortress itself, where the Archon was swelling his host as swiftly as he could forge arms. Another snail to the side of Pentos, where half the fleet of Tyrosh was blockading the city. The Sisters had the rule of the sea, and neither the Tattered Prince nor the Dragonhunt the ships to contest it.

Myr held the Sea of Myrth and little else, but on land it had sent out armies. The Blackfish’s talk of sixteen thousand had been true, but it stood not as one host. The armies had scattered to quell the slave uprisings, though in three strongholds they remained in strong numbers. Two thousand near the coast where the river flowed into the sea, three thousand camped near Lhorulu and six thousand at the tip of the triangle that would be made by the three hosts. That last army had seen the most skirmishing with the Dragonhunt, and most of the men not in a host were spread out in the region surrounding it. The largest force was meant to forbid the southern army from advancing into Myrish territory. Ned had advised against striking at it, until now. They need only retreat slowly until the other forces joined with it, trapping the Dragonhunt between three hosts and grinding it to dust.

“Ned?” Robert said, and Eddard was forced out of his silence.

“Dreaming of black pearls, Stark?” Ser Jaime drawled.

Gerion Lannister had a malicious talent for gossip, Ned had found. Even Maege had spoken, rather luridly, of wolves prying open oysters.

“They do not have sixteen thousand men,” Eddard said.

Robert grinned. He understood first, not for better knowledge of war than the others but because he knew Ned’s mind best.

“They have six thousand men,” he agreed. “And two, and three.”

“Some voice of caution you are, Stark,” Ser Brynden groused.

“Summerhall come again, is it?” Ser Jaime said. “These are not Stormlanders. They will not blunder so easily.”

The Stormlander that led them all fixed the Lannister with a stare that had the younger man uneasy, until Robert boomed with laughter.

“Aye, we don’t have great rocks to crawl under like you westermen,” this foster-brother said. “The field is where we settle it.”

Ser Jaime responded by speaking filth in bastard Valyrian about the farmyard animals he alleged Robert stuck his cock in, tone affable. The Kingslayer had long become inured to the rougher side of Robert’s tongue, and took no offense. In the early days he’d looked for slight in every careless word, but Ned knew best of all men how pleasing it was to sit by the great hearth that was Robert Baratheon. It all seemed warmer and brighter, close to that flame, and a small burn once a few weeks was a small enough price to pay for that warmth.

“The Myrish twat that leads the six thousand won’t give us battle,” Ser Brynden said. “He’s a cautious one. He pulled his patrols when we started to lay ambushes for them.”

“Then we don’t fight him, Blackfish,” Robert said. “We march for the two thousand by the shore.”

“He’ll have leave to join with the host by the Lhorulu before hitting our back,” the Blackfish said. “And gather all his men out in the fields.”

“Not if we force him to follow us,” Ser Jaime said. “If we march for Myr and break every shackle we find on the way, months of toil putting the region to the sword will go up in smoke.”

“We will have no supply line and an ever-swelling amount of mouths to feed,” Ned acknowledged gravely. “But I do not believe he will allow us one, no matter our course.”

“We ever stop moving and we’re dead men,” the Tully sighed. “This throwing dice, not war.”

“Every battle we win, every armoury we plunder means weapons to put in freedmen hands,” Robert said, taken with the notion.

“Farmers and servants, no trained soldiers,” Ned said gravely. “They will die in droves with every battle.”

“Better to die with a fucking blade in hand than as a pig in a pen,” Robert said darkly. “You didn’t see those manses, Ned. The whips are not the worst of it.”

Eddard had no trouble believing the truth of that. He’d seen the scars on the back of women and children, seen the brands on their faces. The former slavers took to their fragile freedom with the desperation of men who’d been drowning. In olden days, before the Targaryens came and Torrhen knelt, slavers had not been unknown to the shores of the North. His forbears had not been gentle in giving answer, the entrails of slavers hanging from the branches of the branches of the Wolf’s Den heart tree. An offering to the old gods, they’d called it, and though Ned would not worship the gods of the First Men with a bloody hand sometimes he wondered. In the dark of night, when he knelt by the silent gods of river and stone and prayed. He had seen the wealth the magisters kept with his own eyes, in Pentos, partook of the spoils. The wealth of a dozen kings and yet they had bled thousands upon thousands for yet more gold, ever greater manses and spices on every cut of meat.

Justice was dead to these shores. Buried and the corpse made fresh mockery of with every dawn. How far must men go, before what they had built was grown beyond mending? Beyond any mercy save the torch? Ned had asked this of his gods, but there were no whispering leaves here. Only the still silence of foreign shores, and mayhaps that was answer enough. Starks were taught from the cradle that justice was a sword in a just man’s hand, and Eddard had not forgot that learning in the Eyrie. There no heart trees here.

But there were slavers, and branches.

“Better a blade than the pen,” Ned agreed softly.

Three days later they marched, and the song of broken shackles in the wind was the call of war declared on half the world.


	31. Chapter 27

The Dragonhunt numbered five thousand and two hundred, by Ned’s tally. Of his, eight hundred was horse and almost all of that from the Seven Kingdoms. A mere two score of former freeriders and freed slaves taken squire were manhood of Essos. Most of the mounted sellswords who’d come south to heed the call of war had gone to the Long Lances, who had swelled back to six hundred men. The Second Sons had filled their ranks in Pentos and on the march south, now three hundred strong. The host of the Captain of the South numbered little over six thousand, if one counted only armed men. A thousand freedmen with little more than knives and sticks trailed behind the soldiers, often half a day’s march or more behind the host. Ser Brynden meant to fill their hands with Myrish crossbows, when those could be taken, to bolster his Riverlands archers. The Myrish contraptions were powerful and needed less seasoning to wield than bows, or so the Blackfish said.

As the four captains had believed, the six thousand Myrmen gave ground as soon as the southern army moved. Four armies were striding across the northern marches of Myr, and it made Ned restless to not know all of their intents. The Dragonhunt sent parties to plunder the fields as they went south, but Myr had not been idle these few months. Wherever they went they found only burned fields and empty villages, manses already stripped bare and granaries without speck of grain in them. The Myrmen had chosen to torch the land rather than let the enemy gain from it. This was not, Eddard found, the worse of it. A sennight into the march, they happened upon a low hill split open by the work of men. A mine, the outriders said, and hesitated to speak more. Their faces were stricken with something much like horror. These were hardened soldiers, Ned thought. They had ridden through the butcher’s yard from the Stoney Sept to King’s Landing, and then again through half of Andalos.

He rode to the mine, ignoring the calls of the others. What he found inside was beyond description. Ned had seen the aftermath of battles, the rot of wounds gone bad and the cries of the dying in the shit and mud. He had seen the Court of Knives and the madness of the Tattered Prince and had thought, fool he, that he knew the worst of men. Flies and carrion filled the tunnel, the stench of blood and flesh almost emptying his stomach. Eddard Stark tread inside the mine, dismounting, and watched the open grave of three hundred slaves. There were women there. Children. He could see the writ of it across the corpses. They’d been penned in, forced back by spears. They’d clawed at each other when driven to the end of the tunnel, then tried to break out. Then the swords had come out, and the red hacking had begun. He would have wept, but this was beyond weeping.

They caught Myrmen the day that followed, a roving band of twenty. Only three survived to be dragged before him, and Ned almost did not find the words.

“Why?” he asked. “Why kill them?”

“Magister Herion ordered us to get rid of the slaves unfit for work,” one replied.

Eddard closed his eyes. Maege’s mailed fist struck the man in the mouth, teeth and blood spraying the grass. The Mormont would have beaten him to death, if he hadn’t ordered her to step back.

“We are not animals,” the Stark said.

They dragged the Myrmen to a tall olive tree and tied rope against the three struggling men’s neck. They hung, one after another, and Ned watched in silence. Behind him hundreds of the Unshackled stood, but the field was quiet as a crypt. There was something hard and furious in the eyes of the men who’d been slaves, he saw, a look as red and hungry as the wolfsblood of his house. The Myrmen died choking, and their corpses were left to the scavengers. Ser Jaime came to stand at his side in shared silence as the soldiers dispersed and the column moved on.

“When you killed Aerys,” Ned asked softly. “What did it feel like?”

The Kingslayer went still.

“Justice, for a moment,” Jaime finally replied. “And then nothing at all.”

Flies were gathering on the corpses, nibbling a puffing skin.

“The old Kings of Winter would have strung up the entrails,” Eddard said.

“Vicious cunts, I’ve no doubt,” the Lannister said. “But I am not Lann the Clever, and you are not Theon Stark.”

“Aye,” Ned said. “Yet I wonder if we’ll grow worse than any of them, before this ends.”

Jaime had no answer to that. Someone carved broken shackles into the bark, before they left. Eddard was never told who, and never asked.

It felt like a promise.

\--

Half-measures would be the doom of Myr, Ned thought. If the Myrmen had steeled themselves to turn the entire northern march into a field of ashes and corpses, the southern army’s campaign would have ended before it ever begun. But the merchants had dithered. When the Dragonhunt turned west it found green land again. It only took a day before they found a manse. The horse rode through the orchard and scattered the few guards that protected the low walls, the rest of the host following behind and falling on it like a pack of wolves. Olive and peach trees were stripped bare, the larders emptied and divied up as the handful of terrified slaves were given freedom they knew not what to do with. The would follow the host, Ned knew. There would be nothing left behind it. The swords and armour were handed out to the freedmen that followed the host, those that were armed joining the ranks of the Unshackled. Eddard did not join the celebrations. He entered the manse instead, looking for the magister that had been hiding behind the sun-baked walls. The man, he found, had already been made prisoner. Lyn Corbray greeted him with a sly look.

“I hear you’ve a game you like to play with the slavers,” Ser Lyn said. “The wretch knew nothing of where the enemy is, even with broken fingers. You’re welcome to him.”

Ned studied the valeman, saying nothing. The man’s smile withered on his face and as the silence stretched he flinched.

“No offence was meant, Lord Stark,” Corbray said.

“None was taken,” Eddard said. “I thank you for the courtesy, Ser Lyn. Maege.”

Lady Mormont and her daughter were shadowed by their shield maidens day and night, since the march had begun. They were an exotic lot, from all the Free Cities and beyond. One’s skin was dark as pitch, a Summer Islander whose pretty face stood contrast to the hard muscle on her tall frame. The magister was fat and pale, and wriggled from the grasp of the shield maidens until one struck his stomach. He emptied his stomach over the tiled floor, but they dragged him to the courtyard regardless. There was a thin, old tree there. It must have lent pleasant shade during the day. The rope went around the magister’s neck and Eddard heard a man come to him as the slaver was forced to stand on a bench.

“I thought the Kingslayer was drunk,” Robert said, standing at his side.

“He may be,” the Stark said. “But he spoke truth, if he told you of this.”

“He’s wound up tighter than his father’s arse,” his foster-brother said. “Hasn’t fucked a girl since crossing the sea, did you know? I ask you, why take off the white cloak if he means to be a septon?”

“Not all men father bastards in plenty,” Eddard said, and there was a mild point to the words.

“Come off it, Ned. I won’t ever marry, I don’t think,” Robert said. “There was only one girl in the world I would have put my father’s cloak on, and no god will ever give her back to me.”

_ Oh, Lyanna _ , Eddard thought, and found the grief had grown quiet but no less sharp.  _ If only you could have cared for him, even a sliver. _ Robert played no harp and his hair was not of silver, but how he would have loved her. If there was any truth to the gods of the south then the Maiden had danced with the Stranger, on that day at Harrenhal, and laughed as her whim set seven kingdoms aflame. The bench was kicked out from under the magister and the noose did its work.

“I saw things like the mine, when we fought them up north,” Robert said after a moment. “Not as bad, but ugly enough.”

“Then you understand,” Ned said, almost pleadingly.

His brother’s hand on his shoulder was a comforting weight, and Eddard had never missed his father so sorely as he did in that moment.

“I know,” Robert said. “I’m no good at building things, Ned. Never have been. My father used to say Baratheons are like storms. We rage and break things and we go away.”

The dark-haired man closed his fist.

“But I use a hammer,” he said. “Not a sword. The septons say those belong to the Smith. You have to strike steel to make something of it.”

“It goes further than the two we’re fighting,” Eddard said.

“I don’t tire easy,” Robert replied, as if it was the easiest thing in the world.

In that darkening courtyard they knelt together on the tiles. Robert used the hunting knife Jon Arryn had given him when he was a boy, and this time it was them that carved the mark into the tree.


	32. Chapter 28

They were mayhaps two weeks of march away from Myr when they found the enemy. The Myrmen knew they were coming, and had already broken camp. Ships, Ned thought. While the Dragonhunt tread only land, the slavers could carry word by sea. So long as the southern army was in sight of the coast, they would never take the enemy by surprise. It changed little, in the end. The two thousand Myrmen were fleeing northeast, to meet with the other hosts. They were never given the chance. Eddard never truly thought of it as a battle, though men later called it the Battle of the Skylarks. A flock of the birds was scared into flight by the Myrish host, revealing the head of the column to the Dragonhunt’s outriders. What followed was butchery, the veterans of two wars pinning down and slaughtering panicked militia over the span of half a morning. The tactics the southern army had crafted over the campaign for Pentos were displayed in full, the same that would become the mark of the Dragonhunt in years to come.  
  
It began with the foot. The plains north of Myr were flat ground and fertile, though not as fertile much as the Dispute Lands. The kind of grounds heavy horse like Westerosi knights had been forged for. Robert led the foot from the centre, with the Blackfish as his second. The Unshackled took the left flank and the Second Sons the right, the lot of them smashing into the side of the Myrish column like a wall of steel. Under the charge the Myrmen bent inwards, the back of their lines fleeing in terror. Ned had been given the horse, with Ser Jaime at his side, and the two of them passed the melee at a trot before forming their men into a wedge. The hard charge that followed swept the Myrmen from the side, breaking through half their line before the other half broke and fled the field. They would not be allowed to. The southern army knew the force must be destroyed in full, or the remnants would flee to join the host in the north.  
  
The Long Lances were swifter than the knights, and even less inclined to mercy. The pursuit was relentless, companies of a hundred lancers riding through any forming knot of Myrmen. The chase took longer than all the rest, the last of the sellswords returning to the battlefield with noon. Less than two hundred of the Myrmen had been taken prisoner, the rest carpeting the green grass in scores and trails. The freedmen swarmed the field, cutting the throats of the wounded and taking their armaments. Less than six hundred crossbows, for many had been broken, but there were carts full of bolts to feed the ones that remained. The rest were spears and breastplates more fit for city guard than soldiers. The ranks of the Unshackled grew by five hundred before the corpses were all cold, the crossbowmen who did not yet know how to wield crossbows sent under the command of the Blackfish. Fives days the southern army remained there, for any longer and the supplies would grow too thin.  
  
Ser Brynden took to drilling the crossbowmen, though in private his words were grim and he said neither proper volley nor steadiness should be expected of them. Robert himself took to training the Unshackled and the lordliest of the foot with him. Ned took part in neither, for he was to be buried in ledgers again. Jaime and Ser Lyn took the horse out to scour the environs, every day returning with plundered food and freed slaves. Too few of these were men of fighting fit, and there were few armouries to seize this close to Myr. The magisters had sent for weapons before taking to having more forged. A few manses with guards saw the numbers of armed men grow, but too few. Less than a hundred. Eddard now had perhaps a thousand men who were willing to fight, fresh from bondage, but thrice that number in women and children and the elderly. Too many mouths to feed, and they would have to trail behind the southern army as it sought battle after battle. A company of Myrish horse would be enough to see them killed in droves, and Ned would not have the men to spare to give them escort.  
  
On the fourth day, Eddard learned he’d had a shallow understanding of the desperation shadowing the Dragonhunt. The thousands had no laid idle. A crone with a wrinkled face smiled toothlessly as he watched, sharpening a long branch into a spear and showing children how to affix a sharp stone at the end. She cupped her thumb and her forefinger as the better part of her circle, and all her squabbling attendants did the same. All over the camp the old and the sick and mothers with babes at their hips turned strips of leather into slings and sent children scrambling for stones. Maege and her shield maidens, now his retinue in truth if not title, waited as he went still. It was the Summer Islander that broke the silence, the woman named Jalabha Dho.  
  
“It is broken shackle, lord,” she said in broken bastard Valyrian. “Like banner and tree.”  
  
“What does it mean?” Ned asked quietly.  
  
“Never again,” she said. “Better dead than slave.”  
  
That night where he’d carved the mark with his foster-brother, Eddard had glimpsed what lay ahead of them. Now he was looking upon it. Better dead than a slave. They had declared war on every last of the magisters, and neither side would give until the last shattered bone was buried. This had grown larger than them, larger than a handful of men hunting Rhaegar Targaryen to the ends of the earth. There were more freedmen than Westerosi in the host, now, and how many of them knew the name of Lyanna Stark? The war had changed and the face of the soldiers with it.  _We are no longer the tide_ , Ned thought.  _We are carried by it._  And the tide was carrying them to hard days, for in the face of any army these people would be trampled underfoot. In a better world freedom and slings would have been enough to break empires, but Eddard knew better than to hope in this. That evening he held council with the others, and course was charted.  
  
“Our outriders caught sight of enemy horse to the north,” the Blackfish announced.  
  
“Too quick for the host at Lhorulu to have joined them,” Ser Jaime said, pleased.  
  
“Unless it was already on the march,” Ned warned.  
  
“Two or three days before it comes to a battle,” Robert said. “I am disinclined to let them catch us here.”  
  
Flat grounds were good, when one had the numbers. All four captains were aware they might not be the side with that blessing, come the next battle.  
  
“We can’t take Myr with what we have,” the Blackfish said bluntly. “We’d need at least three times the men.”  
  
“And siege engines,” Ser Jaime mused.  
  
“And a fleet,” Ser Brynden grunted. “But men we need most of all. We need to take one of the lesser cities. Doesn’t matter how green the men are if they have walls to stand on when the rest of the Myrmen come.”  
  
Ned had been taught that the Free Cities were lone cities, as a boy in the Eyrie, but this was a false thing. Every one of them was a small kingdom of its own, and though the greatest of their holdings was the Free City itself they held smaller cities as well. Towns, Essossi called them, but any of three towns Myr ruled boasted twice the number of souls within its wall than Winterfell even when the winter town was full.  
  
“Walls we now stand outside of,” Ned said.  
  
“It’ll be bloody work,” the Blackfish conceded. “But all the proper soldiers will have gone north. The garrisons will be boys and old men.”  
  
“Sere is closest,” Robert said, staring at the map.  
  
It was to the northeast of Myr, in the plains. The other two tributary cities were too far south for a march, one bordering the Raddish Lake and the other on the furthest shore of the Lesser Myrth.  
  
“Storming the walls will be too costly,” Ned said. “We will not have the strength afterwards to hold the same ramparts against the Myrmen.”  
  
“We can’t keep roving the fields, Eddard,” Ser Brynden said. “We’ll muster a mob, but one without arms and too small to matter.”  
  
“If the enemy is three days behind is, if we fail to take Sere swiftly we will have a garrison ahead and an army behind,” the Stark said.  
  
“We have the Unshackled,” Jaime said.  
  
Ned frowned.  
  
“You mean to have only them die taking the walls?” he asked.  
  
“You misunderstand,” the Lannister said. “We all look from the Seven Kingdoms, Stark, or carry sellsword banners. Save for the Unshackled. The wear the armour of Myrmen, bear their weapons.”  
  
“The city will have heard of the defeat here,” Robert said with a wolfish smile. “But not that we all but destroyed the host. You want them to fly the banner of Myr and pretend to be remnants fleeing us.”  
  
“The garrison will want all the men they can put together, to resist our assault,” Ser Jaime said. “They’ll open the gates for reinforcements.”  
  
And inside, if the Blackfish was right, would be only the dregs of Myr’s fighting force. Surrounded by dozens of thousands of slaves, full granaries and a full armoury.  
  
“It’s a fool plan,” Ser Brynden sighed. “But when has that ever stopped us?”


	33. Chapter 29

The men called it a victory, but Ned was not so certain. Ser Jaime’s ruse succeeded, at first. The gates of Sere opened wide as the rest of the southern host pursued at a distance. It had been a delicate balance to strike, close enough to be able to join battle but not so close that the defenders of the city would hesitate to open the gates. Two thousand of the Unshackled rushed inside under a Myrish banner, and that was when it all went wrong. One the brands on freedmen was glimpsed beneath a helm and bloody panic ensued. Sere’s garrison was ten thousand strong, though the Blackfish had been right to call them green boys and the unfit. These were the dregs of the hosts of Myr, and they fought like it. Yet steel was dangerous no matter who wielded it, and the moment the first blade came out was when chaos seized the reins of the day.  
  
For an hour the Unshackled stood strong, keeping the gates open as the Dragonhunt and the sellswords marched to reinforce them. The enemy had spread over the ramparts and was slow to give answer, but when it did the numbers told. Wave after wave of desperate Myrmen tried to take back their gate and shut it close, charging into a wall of spears. Most men would have broken, Eddard knew. He’d seen hardened Dornish spearmen break at the Trident to assaults half so bloody. But the Unshackled held.  _Never again_ , the shieldmaiden had said.  _Better dead than a slave_. It was a dark and bitter breed of courage, but that it was courage could not be denied. Of the two thousand Unshackled who’d gone forward, less than six hundred remained when the Dragonhunt arrived. They had turned the street into the a city into a charnel yard, bleeding the Myrmen for every step.  
  
Robert led the foot and smashed into the enemy, forcing it to draw back. For two hours the Myrish packed the streets surrounding the gate with men so tightly advance was nigh impossible, but the Blackfish thinned the left flank with his Riverlands bowmen and Ser Jaime broke the line. That was the end of it, for more reason than they knew. There were fewer men standing against them than there should have, for half the city had risen when the battle took. Slaves ran wild in the streets, murdering their masters with kitchen knives and hoes and whatever they could grab. The garrison tried to put them down, but there were simply too many. There were three slaves for every free man in Myr, Ned had once been taught. By the end of the night there would be many free men, but so very few slavers.  
  
The last gasps of resistance held in the tall towers of the magisters, tall spires of stone that barricaded their gates after drawing in as many fleeing soldiers as they could. It would be bloody work to take them, the captains of the Dragonhunt knew. Best avoided through a surrender, as men facing death with no retreat fought with the strength of desperation. Eddard settled the matter himself, riding into the city after the worst of the fighting was over. He had the Unshackled drag down the scorpions and onagers from the walls and within the hour their stones were battering the doors. The few magisters in the city sent out men under truce banner for talks, and a deal was struck. The magisters and their men would be allowed to leave the city, but without their arms and possessions. There were whispers of dissent in the ranks, at this. The Unshackled wanted blood, and the howling mob in the streets answered to no one.  
  
Robert was inclined to give it, but the Stark argued otherwise.  
  
“If we force the towers, we will lose too many to face the host coming south,” he said.  
  
“Then we starve the bastards, Ned,” he grimly said. “Let them lick up their spices and pray for bread. There’s your justice.”  
  
“We cannot have a garrison at our back and the enemy at the gates,” Eddard insisted. “We do not have the men to meet both.”  
  
The Blackfish backed him in this, without hesitation. Ser Jaime was still riding through the city with the horse, trying to make order out of red madness, and so gave no voice. Guarantee of escort out of the city had to be given before the magisters would agree to the terms, and had Ned known what would come of it he would have bit his tongue. The foot of the Dragonhunt and the Second Sons formed columns to guide the Myrish out, but the city went savage. The slaves threw stones and filth at the magisters and their men, then at the foot when they were forced to disperse the mob. The blood of men was up, on both sides, and ugly nature took hold. The riots must have killed hundreds of the prisoners before being quelled in blood, and the Second Sons balked at risking their lives for the enemy. They ran from the crowds rather than face them, leaving the men they escorted to die. Captain Istarion would have to give answer for this. Of the four thousand who’d surrendered, barely three thousand made it out. The streets ran red once more, and it was a sullen city that was seized by the Captain of the South.  
  
“Most of them will die in the countryside,” Ser Jaime said later that night, when they held council once more. “To rebels or starvation.”  
  
“Not if they stick together,” the Blackfish grunted. “We’ve not seen the last of them, mark my words. They’ll be waiting on the walls of Myr when we come calling.”  
  
“Better the magisters waste steel on those than true fighting men,” Robert dismissed. “A worry for another day, besides. We’ve another battle nipping at our heels.”  
  
“The Myrish host is two days north, marching as swift as it can,” Ned said. “The outriders have no hard numbers to give us, but they seem at least six thousand.”  
  
The southern army still had the numbers, at least, though by a thinner gap than the day before. The taking of Sere had been a costly affair in more manner than one.  
  
“I worry they might try to starve us instead of a storm,” the Blackfish said. “Eddard, what are the granaries like?”  
  
“Lord Karstark is still taking tally,” Ned said, eyeing the man with irritation.  
  
The city had been taken for a mere few hours, did they already expect a ledger of him? For all that Jaime insisted the way he managed to keep the men fed must be some sort of northern sorcery, he was no woods witch to have the wind whispering such secrets to him.  
  
“Give us a guess, Ned,” Robert grinned.  
  
“At most a month of siege,” the Stark said. “And that will be with heavy rationing. I’ve no notion of how many souls dwell in Sere, but it cannot be less than a hundred thousand.”  
  
“The armouries are what matters most,” Ser Jaime said. “We ought to be able to field a few thousand Unshackled, after this.”  
  
“More than that,” Ned said quietly. “Ser Corbray found weapons beneath the towers. The magisters hoarded them in piles so there would be no danger of slaves taking them.”  
  
The Blackfish snorted.  
  
“That man must have given the Maiden a hell of tumble, to be lucky as he is,” Ser Brynden said.  
  
Lyn Corbray was unpleasant and his manners rarely other than poisonous, but Eddard had found he had a talent for finding prizes that rivalled that of any sellsword. He was not to be trusted, he was too ruthlessly ambitious for that, but it would have been a waste not to make use of him. Ned sometimes wondered what it said of him, that thoughts like that one were no longer strange to him. The same words could have been spoken by Tywin Lannister and he would not have thought it unusual.  
  
“Two days, then,” Ser Jaime mused. “To arm a city that now distrusts us, take it into battle with a host we do not truly know the numbers of, and somehow curb a hundred thousand former slaves who’ve acquired a fresh taste for killing.”  
  
Ned almost winced. That had been starkly put, though no less true for it.  
  
“We’ll have to be careful,” Ser Brynden frowned. “We lose too many men to the Myrish on the field and the city may slip out of our grasp.”  
  
“None want to have shackles on their feet again, Blackfish,” Robert said. “They’ll fight hard to keep the enemy out.”  
  
“We lost many of the older Unshackled today,” Ser Jaime said. “I would not trust those who join us here as much as these.”  
  
“A common enemy binds men like nothing else,” the Baratheon said, and it was the victor of the Trident that was speaking to them then.  
  
The same man who’d forged half of Westeros into the blade that ran through House Targaryen, then taken the hardest steel of that host and led it across the sea.  
  
“Best we all look that enemy in the eyes together, then,” Ser Brynden said. “I had a good look at the streets when we fought. I’ve a notion as to how we can bleed the enemy there.”  
  
“You mean to let them in through the gates,” Ned frowned.  
  
“I mean to trap them there,” the Blackfish smiled, and there was a hard glint to the older man’s eyes. “To catch them with their cocks out and their trousers on their ankles.”  
  
“If we’re to scheme, let us not do it with dry throats,” Robert laughed. “Don’t look so fucking grim, Ned. We’ve plundered another few magister cellars tonight, and I’ll be damned it we don’t get drunk on the ransom of kings.”


	34. Chapter 30

Though most history books called it the Second Battle of Sere, these were the dry lines of maesters. In Westeros, when word spread the plan had been crafted by Brynden Tully, men took to calling it the Blackfish Weir. Across the Narrow Sea, where few cared to remember the captains of the Dragonhunt were not born to Essos, it was known as the Cage of Rats. Whether it be maesters or lords or freedmen, though, none disputed that it was in Sere that the doom of Myr was wrought. Granted the ever-perfect foresight of distant years, historians would condemn the decision of the commanding magisters as the foolish mistake of merchants knowing nothing of war, much less war against the likes of the Dragonhunt. The most prominent voice of dissent, as often, was Archmaester Armen in his masterwork ‘Summer Crowns’. While the decision to take the fight to the city was a mistake, he argued it was not a mistake born of stupidity.  
  
Though a dozen magisters fancied themselves the leaders of the Myrish host, in truth only two held command and neither were strangers to war. Magister Bregar Daghas was almost sixty years of age, and had learned the trade of war through half a decade of serving in a sellsword company before emerging as the foremost commander among of Myr in the incessant wars for the Disputed Lands. He was cautious, ruthless and the mind behind the order to torch most of the northern marches to starve out the enemy. Had he not been overruled by the magisters in Myr unwilling to ruin their holdings to swat down mere sellswords, he would have done the same further south and west. This, Archmaester Armen wrote, might have ended the rise of the Dragonhunt before it ever began. It was the will of the Seven that this not be, and so history moved otherwise.  
  
The second commander was not a magister at all, but a former officer of the Golden Company. Lyserion Backbite had parted on hard terms with his fellow sellswords over a matter of promotion, and been taken in by Myr as a commander of the city guard. Though not the anointed leader of that institution, for such appointments were reserved for the relatives of magisters, it could be said that Lyserion had been the true force behind it. He’d become a very wealthy man in this position, but no amount of wealth would ever make him Myrish. Certain doors would always remain closed to him, save mayhaps if he did great service to the city that not even the magisters could easily dismiss. Greed for gold and power has ever been the undoing of Essosi heathens, Archmaester Armen wrote, and Lyserion Backbite was greedier than most.  
  
There were, of course, larger concerns. Though the captains of the Dragonhunt were unaware of it, their campaign had already shaken the foundations of Myr. Terrified of slave rebellions breaking out across their territory if news of the defeats spread, the magisters had closed the gates of the city and ordered the same for the two smaller tributaries still under its yoke, Laren and Tobronos. The magisters believed that isolation would keep rumours outside the walls until the Dragonhunt could be crushed, and so avoid the bloody costs of culling their slave population until it submitted anew. They then called for half the garrisons of both these tributaries to march for Myr, to prepare to defend the city should the worst happen or form the wings of the army that would take back the northern marches should the expected victory take place.  
  
And these orders, Archmaester Armen wrote, lay bare the inferiority of the Essosi forms of rule. Without the proper oaths to an anointed king to make their duty undeniable, the magisters in Myr found their fellows in the tributaries proved reluctant to send men. Laren sent a token force of a thousand and pleaded that it needed the rest to keep its slaves in check. Tobronos, deeper in the Disputed Lands and not so unfamiliar to war, kept its gate closed to the messengers and ignored the orders from Myr. The magisters that had seized power in the city sent envoys to Tyrosh instead, whose army was then largely intact, and began negotiations to change allegiance in exchange for protection should the situation worsen. Some of the envoys were caught, and wrath took hold of the magisters in Myr. Magister Bregar was immediately ordered to destroy the Dragonhunt as swiftly as possible before marching on Tobronos, the notion of swallowing Pentoshi holdings reluctantly abandoned for the year.  
  
Records indicate that Bregar Daghas attempted to ignore those orders. He meant, it is supposed, to lay siege on Sere until the second host gathering behind him could bolster his numbers for a storming of the walls. Yet Lyserion Backbite, proving the truth of the name he’d earned putting knives in the back of his rivals, assembled the other magisters and swayed them into considering an assault. The victors of Sere, he said, would be the true rulers of Myr in the decades to come. Glory could be worth as much as coin. Magister Bregar gave answer swiftly, having him arrested and confined to his tent. Yet when the Myrish army came in sight of Sere and found its gates open, the Dragonhunt having failed to secure the city in full and still fighting inside, Lyserion was promptly freed by the other magisters and acclaimed as commander instead. Glory awaited, and Bregar’s calls for prudence were mocked as the dodderings of an old man.  
  
The four great captains of the Dragonhunt, Archmaester Armen wrote, came to be distinguished in different ways over the many years of the War of Chains. King Robert Baratheon, who twice wrested a crown from the battlefield, was ever the Warrior’s favoured son. Unmatched on the field, he made champions of slaves and no host ever withstood his storm in full. Ser Jaime Lannister proved the greatest knight of his age, humbling even the savage Dothraki and nailing their bell-laden braids to his standard. No man ever struck terror in the hearts of slavers so deeply as Prince Eddard Stark, whose cold discernment famously turned the Battle of Valysar into the doom of three armies. Ser Brynden Tully’s name was already known before any of the others rose to prominence, and he proved the worth of his reputation at the Second Battle of Sere. To fight the Blackfish, Triarch Malaquo Maegyr famously said, was like fucking a girl with teeth in her cunt.  
  
A delight, up until the bite.  
  
\--  
  
“Retreat,” Ned ordered.  
  
They’d met the Myrmen at the gates with only a thousand men and given them a fight, but there were too many. His lines would break if he remained any longer, and already they’d lost hundreds to the swords and crossbows. These were not levies, they were hardened veterans of the Disputed Lands. Dacey Mormont ripped her mace from man’s shattered helm and bellowed the order again. A maid of sixteen, and already she had more dead men than years to her name. The only dwory Maege’s daughter claimed was steel. It was hard toil to keep the retreat from turning into a true rout as the Myrish host kept pouring through the gates, coming after them liked maddened hounds. The enemy could already taste victory, and only Eddard knew that these were the moments where the side being slaughtered was to be determined. If his foot gave, the Blackfish’s trap would remain forever a fool’s fancy. A bolt clattered against his plate and the shieldmaidens rallied around him, roughly moving aside anyone in their path.  
  
They gave by inches, then by feet, then retreated almost at a run. The Myrmen charged into the streets, baying like dogs in their foreign tongue. How long before he had gone far enough? It was all steel and screams, the world nothing more than a storm of death following him. The streets widened behind his men, and there awaited the Westerosi foot to brace his own. The shield wall spread, thick and strong, and Brynden Tully’s trap closed. The Myrmen had spread through the winding streets in their pursuit. The Unshackled, all six thousand of them, burst out of houses and alleys to fall upon them. Bowmen loosed their volleys from behind the shield wall, arrowheads tearing flesh as they fell an unending rain. The press was thick, Myrmen standing shoulder to shoulder, and when Ned screamed for the shield wall to advance the victory in the eyes of the slavers turned to fear. They would have run, but they could not. Not with half the host still outside the gates and trying to force its way in.  
  
The terrified soldiers clawed at each other like rats, outside pushing in and inside pushing out. The rivermen and the freedmen with crossbows fed the terror one volley at a time, for the Myrish used bucklers and not greatshields. There was no avoiding the death falling from above. Foot by foot Ned’s soldiers took back the grounds they have given, their numbers swelling with the Unshackled as they did. To the side, even over the furor of the battle, he could hear the screaming.  _Robert’s flank_ , he thought. Driven back on three sides, the Myrmen screamed and died. Under the heavy sun, the host of Myr broke. It was Ser Jaime that did it, in the end. He’d been given the knightly horse and the Long Lances as well, sent out of sight while the Myrmen invested the city. He’d returned at their back when the battle turned against them, almost two thousand horse carving a bloody swath into slaver host. He slew the enemy commander himself, and the sight of it broke the spirits of the Myrish.  
  
The flow pouring into the city slackened as the host outside broke and fled, the Dragonhunt driving out the last of the Myrish out of Sere through its still-open gates. It had felt like a great slaughter, to Ned, but he later learned that of the seven thousand Myrmen only three thousand died by the city. The rest were hunted over a sennight, the Long Lances and the knights riding down the haggard survivors fleeing over the plains. Seven thousand Myrmen had come to Sere but only nine hundred survived to run south to Myr.  
  
When word spread, the entire region went up in flames.


	35. Chapter 31

Jon Arryn’s lesson were not enough to guide him in this. There were more than one hundred thousand souls in Sere, Ned learned when he was handed the ledgers of the magisters. One hundred thousand and fifty three hundred, by the the last census. It was five years old and war had touched the city since, but there were still more people within these walls than the entire western coast of the North. Robert had no desire to spend his days putting the city to rights and so Eddard was made steward of the city over a cup of wine. The Stark would find no help in Ser Brynden either, for the older man had no desire for lordship of any kind and filled his hours with turning the massively swelled ranks of the Dragonhunt into a proper army. Ser Jaime rode with Robert in the countryside, harassing the last remaining army of Myr on its march to the city and raiding the fertile fields of the south.  
  
It took Ned a week to force peace onto the city, for even though the freedmen loved Robert for his destruction of the slavers they were still drunk on freedom. Gangs roved the streets with makeshift weapons, carving out territories where the army of the south was not garrisoned. Eddard gave answer harshly. No one not enrolled in the Dragonhunt was allowed to wield a blade larger than a knife, and those that were caught with one were hanged. He put the Second Sons to work finding the ambitious and the discontent, folding those that were amenable into the fledgling city guard and having the rest dragged into cells. He made sure to spread the gangs across different companies, for he would brook no small tyrants. He earned some mislike for this, but Captain Istarion assured him that many more of the freedmen welcomed a return to order.  
  
Five thousand men were drafted into the city guard, in the end, and handed out clubs and daggers to patrol. They wore red cloth over their left arms, red as the dying dragon on the Dragonhunt’s banner. Ned had been Master of Coins to their band of exiles, but it seemed he was now Master of Laws as well. Settling matters of property came first, for already violent quarrels were erupting over it. There were no lack of roofs for the freedmen to live under, but who would own them? Some manses had once held hundreds of slaves, and every one of them would have claimed the grounds. He spent half a day settling appeals one at a time, as a lord would have, before recognizing the task as too great for any one man to discharge. Instead he sent Unshackled into the streets, to call for any who knew their letters and numbers. Hundreds came, haggard and desperate.  
  
The learned freedmen had suffered in the chaos, unused to fending for themselves and bitterly resented by other former slaves for their better treatment. Ned had them settled in the tall tower he claimed for his own, and before the month had passed it had turned into the ruling seat of Sere. Arnolf Karstark was put at the head of the lot of them, and they were charged with the tedious task of seeing through Eddard’s will. Any freedman who could prove they had lived as slave under a roof were entitled to remain under it for their lifetime, though that right would not pass to their children. When the last freedman died, the property would be taken by the city and sold publicly. To soften the bitter brew, the Stark saw to it that a third of the wealth of the magisters he’d ordered seized, what parts of it had not already been plundered, was distributed to the former slaves. A tenth of the plunder went to the southern army, and the rest to fill the city’s coffers.  
  
Not all those left in the city were former slaves. Thousands had been free men before Sere fell, though not magisters. Some had owned slaves, and Ned learned with distaste that if he hung ever last of those from a tree he would make himself the greatest butcher in the known world. He decreed reparations instead, to the sum of the wages that would have been due a free man for the years of slavery. Karstark’s sprawl of scribes and translators had to be assigned city guard to break up some of the brawls that ensued between the freed and the free over accusations of lies and thievery. Many were ruined by the decree, and riots ensued, but the Second Sons quelled the unrest with a heavy hand. Captain Istarion told him later that the sight of blood had done much to redeem his name from the rumour he’d been the one to broker the surrender of the magisters. A year ago, Ned would have been disgusted by the talk. Now he only measured the usefulness of it, wondered if it would allow him to tighten the rationing without unrest.  
  
Eddard had over a hundred thousand pairs of idle hands, and he meant to give them labour. He sent call for the smiths, first. Assembled them in his tower, the one men now called the Wolf Den, and told them to elect five men to stand at their head. The squabbles went on for most of the day, but in the end he had his five and named them eldermen of the guild of blacksmiths. The guild was charged the forging of weapons and armour for the Dragonhunt, and smithies lit up day and night. He sent for the weavers, after, and when the guild was formed they were ordered to produce shirts and blankets, tents and bandages. He did this with most of the great trades of the city, for there were not enough hours in a day for Ned to look over every shoulder he needed to. Six months after the second battle that took place there, Sere was orderly if not prosperous. There was no trade to be had, and Eddard had no means to end that plague. Farming of the fields resumed, for starvation loomed ahead if it did not, and the rationing was slowly loosened.  
  
It would have been a great deal harder to accomplish, if the Blackfish had not taken his fill of the men that were fighting fit. The Dragonhunt had left the sunset town five thousand strong, but now stood twenty thousand. Ned had not seen so great a host since the rebellion, and never one so eager for war. The southern army’s horse had the run of the region, but in the end fought little. Slave rebellions had spilled south and grown into a blaze that swallowed the countryside. The magisters still ruled Myr and a few miles around it, it was said, but nothing else. In the fields shackles were broken and masters slaughtered in their beds. Myr’s two tributaries had closed their doors and were quelling revolts from behind the walls, which had Robert itching for a campaign. Ned advised caution. The Unshackled needed training, and half the siege engines were still being built. If they struck in haste, it might undo all that they had accomplished. There was argument about where they should strike, as well.  
  
“Myr,” Ser Jaime urged. “The head of the snake. If the city falls the rest will collapse.”  
  
“There’s the trouble, Lannister,” the Blackfish said. “No point in taking the city if we lose half our host storming those walls. We won’t be able to hold anything we won.”  
  
“It will have to be a storm,” Robert grunted. “There’ll be no starving them out, not with granaries that full and the open sea besides.”  
  
“Taking Laren would grow the host again,” Ned said quietly. “Enough for an assault on the walls, even a costly one.”  
  
“We do not have another half-year to spare for you to deal out stern northern justice, Eddard,” Ser Jaime said. “Tyrosh landed in the Disputed Lands to stamp out their rebellions, but it will come north in time.”  
  
The Tattered Prince had told them as much, along with flowery praise of their victories and promise that the Windblown would join them as soon as they could. When that would be, the messenger knew not. The Dragonhunt would see no help from Pentos. There’d been no word of Ser Gerion in months, the last heard of him when he’d been skulking with his ship around the Sea of Myrth to learn the intent of the Myrmen.  
  
“Two months,” Robert said, after long silence. “That’s as long as we can risk to linger with the Tyroshi on the prowl. Then we march for Myr.”  
  
No one gainsaid him.  
  
“We must leave someone to hold the city,” Ser Brynden said.  
  
“My nuncle served as steward in Lannisport,” Ser Jaime said.  
  
“I’d rather leave Corbray behind,” Robert replied. “Ser Eustace can lead the valemen.”  
  
“Captain Istarion,” Ned said, and the others all turned to him.  
  
His foster-brother met his eyes.  
  
“You trust him?” Robert asked.  
  
“No,” Eddard said. “But he does not have the men to raise his own banner and the Second Sons known the run of the city.”  
  
“Sellswords are ambitious,” the Blackfish warned.  
  
“So is Lyn Corbray,” Ser Jaime laughed.  
  
He did not put forward Ser Damon again. He’d not been truly warm to the notion, it was clear. The older Lannister was not unfit for the duty, in Ned’s eyes, but unlike Tybero Istarion he knew none of the guilds and lacked the knack and patience to keep the freedmen from riot. Besides, Eddard did not trust him. Ser Jaime had proven himself more than his oathbreaking and Gerion was a friend, odd as the thought still was to him, but of the lion’s brood only these two he counted good men.  
  
“Long live Captain Inkpots, then,” Robert toasted.


	36. Chapter 32

“This is a bribe,” Ned said, reluctantly amused.  
  
“Eddard, you wound me,” Ser Jaime grinned.  
  
There were half a dozen men and women in the solar, but it did not feel cluttered in the slightest. Twice as many could have comfortably fit. The magister who’d owned this tower had a taste for the ostentatious, and the Stark had found his own rooms so gaudy he’d had them stripped of the useless luxuries before making them his own. The Lannister had come with the two westermen that were never far from his shadow. Ser Lyle Crakehall, called by some the Strongboar, and Ser Addam Marband. Ned like Marbrand the better, of these two. Steady but brave, and popular with men of all stripes. Strongboar was better with a sword than any of the westermen save Ser Jaime himself, but he had too strong a taste for battle. A good man to have at your side in a melee, but not one to be given a great charge. The heir to the Rock had brought a bottle of pear liquor and offered it with great ceremony, before being met with accusation. The very same liquor Ned had grown of grown fond of in Braavos. Gerion must have told.  
  
“Out with it, Lannister,” the Stark said, attempting sternness though his lips had quirked.  
  
“I hear you’ve some Dothraki chargers stowed away somewhere,” the Lannister drawled. “Perhaps, when drinking this gift and pondering where they should be sent, you may keep your dear friend Jaime in mind.”  
  
Dacey Mormont, one of the two shieldmaidens standing at his back, coughed into her hand to disguise a laugh.  
  
“The Blackfish has been sniffing around them as well,” Ned noted.  
  
“I’ve no doubt,” Ser Jaime said. “The man knows his horseflesh. But, my lord of Stark, did he bring liquor?”  
  
Crakehall looked as if he was asking himself if he’d wandered into a fever dream, though Marbrand was unreadable. It must have been a queer thing to them, this light-hearted talk. Neither of them had ever sat in the councils the captains of the Dragonhunt kept behind closed doors. Mayhaps that was for the best. Ned had been talked into singing more than once, after Robert insisted it would be blasphemy to leave a bottle unfinished, and seeing Ser Brynden and Ser Jaime squabble like children over whether Arthur Dayne had been a better blade than the Dragonknight would have done no good to either their reputes. Neither would have the loud but mispronounced insults in foreign tongues they tossed at each other when there were no more arguments to be mustered.  
  
“I will keep you in my thoughts,” Eddard conceded.  
  
One of the magisters had kept five Dothraki chargers in his stables, and now grown men were trying everything short of pulling knives to get their hands on one of the horses. The Blackfish had won too many arguments of late, and so Ned was inclined to give victory to Ser Jaime in this. Not all of them, but mayhaps half. Robert had already stolen his straight out of the stables, named him Spearbreaker and would not cease speaking of how swift a stallion it was after a few cups. The Lannister and his men made their courtesies and left after some talk of preparations that were still being undertaken for the march south, Ser Jaime hinting he might have more bottles in his possession should some of the chargers find their way to him. Dacey leaned against his broad table as they left, frankly eyeing their departing silhouettes.  
  
“He’s a handsome one,” Maege’s daughter said when they were no longer close enough to hear.  
  
“Ser Jaime?” Ned said. “Famously so.”  
  
The northerner laughed. It suited her, though not half as much as mail and an axe. Dacey Mormont was younger than Eddard by nigh five years, and already of a height with him. Though no one knew the name of her father and Maege only ever told that her daughters had been fathered by a bear in the woods, Ned thought he must have been tall as a giant. The shape of it could be seen in Dacey, in her long face and tall frame. Not so thickly built as her mother, but years of training with an axe had put muscle to her arms that southern ladies would have beheld with horror.  _Southern has no more meaning, out here_ , the Stark thought.  _We may never see the North again._  
  
It had changed them all, scouring the eastern shores of the Narrow Sea. Ned had seen things few men ever would, and few Starks among them. How could he look at the span of the winter town and the tall towers of Winterfell the same, when he had seen works so much grander? The east made the land of his ancestors look like a beggar’s bowl, and though Eddard missed the godswood and the crypts keenly he was not the same man he had once been. The world was larger than he could have ever dreamed of, filled with more horrors and wonders than a man could witness in a single lifetime.  
  
“Not the Lannister,” Dacey said. “Too pretty for me, even with the marks. Strongboar, now, there’s a man that would pull through a long winter.”  
  
The lions that had been carved into Jaime Lannister’s cheeks at knifepoint by the Second Sons had long scarred over, though not managed to mar his face as they would another man’s. They made the blond knight look older and fiercer instead of simply mangled.  
  
“If his hair grew thicker, he would match your sigil,” Ned said, and it surprised a laugh out of her.  
  
She was pretty, when she laughed. It could sometimes be an effort not to take notice. It had been many months since Eddard had last shared a bed with a woman, and now that he knew the taste of it the thoughts were harder to ignore. This was not Lady Bellegere, he reminded himself, who treated such matters more lightly than most. Dacey Mormont was of the North, and her mother one of his closest. It would have been an ugly way to repay Maege’s service to bed her daughter, aside from the dishonour it would bring the both of them. The Stark reached for the Lannister offering, but found the cork set too deeply in for his fingers. Dacey claimed it from his hands with a teasing grin, taking a knife to it.  
  
“Shall I claim reward for my service?” she asked.  
  
“Do,” Ned said. “I must not drink too much of it. There is still work to be done.”  
  
Night would be falling soon enough, but candles would be brought and sleep warded off as long as he could. There were still two dozen appointments to be made, and the Stark must somehow find a way to claim supplies for over twenty thousand soldiers on the march without leaving a starving city behind him. Dacey poured and Eddard too his cup, tasting the sweet drink. He rose to his feet, feeling restless. He’d not believed, in King’s Landing, that the hunt for Rhaegar would require so much sitting of him. To the side of the solar tall panes of coloured glass worth a fortune opened onto a balcony that overlooked the east of the city. He found himself standing there, leaning against marble as the sun set red in the distance. The Mormont followed, cup in one hand at the bottle in the other.  
  
“It would not be a sin, for you to rest,” she said.  
  
Ned almost laughed and was glad he did not. It would have sounded bitter, and unworthy of him.  
  
“And who will see my duties through, then?” he asked. “Robert did me great honour, by naming me steward of the city. I would not fail him.”  
  
“The king did you not mean to honour you into the grave, I would think,” Dacey said.  
  
The line in her words lay bare, though he did not believe she knew it.  _The king_ , she’d called Robert. The Westerosi of the Dragonhunt had grown split into different hosts, one that yet called his foster-brother king and another that called him lord. Stannis would darken to hear that even after being tossed a crown, some still loved the victor of the Trident better than he. The westermen, one and all, called him lord. Tywin’s daughter, Jaime’s sister, was wed to King Stannis. It would have been a slight to Lady Cersei to still name Robert king. The valemen followed in this, though Ser Lyn spoke both to those that preferred one of the other. It was those of the Stormlands and the North that still saw a crown on Robert’s brow though he now wore and claimed none. Trouble would spring from this, one day. Ned had grown too jaded to think it would not come in his lifetime.  
  
“We will leave in a moon’s turn,” Ned said after a span of silence. “I would not call campaigning restful task, but I will not have so many men in my charge then.”  
  
“Taking refuge in war,” Dacey said, amused. “You are a strange man, Eddard Stark.”  
  
Ned drank, and did not look at how the colours the dying sun tinted her face with.  
  
“I came east for Lyanna,” he found himself saying. “And she will have her due, this I swear. But this war has grown beyond my sister’s shade.”  
  
“It is larger than any of us had thought,” the dark-haired woman said softly. “Mother has not spoken of Bear Island in months, did you know? I will love our hold to my dying day, Lord Eddard, but we are more here. Part of something greater, small as we may be.”  
  
“Ned,” the Stark said. “Call me Ned.”  
  
He felt her eyes on him, but looked down at the city instead. Anyone he would speak of his sister to should call him this, at least.  
  
“Ned,” Dacey repeated gently.  
  
“I wonder if it is arrogance, to believe we can break chains older than the realm,” Eddard murmured. “A victor’s madness. And yet.”  
  
“And yet,” Dacey Mormont agreed.  
  
They stayed out there until half the bottle was gone, then Eddard Stark returned to his duty.


	37. Chapter 33

Captain Tybero Istarion oft reminded Ned of Roose Bolton. The plumb and balding man shared a certain edged mildness with the Lord of the Dreadfort, though Istarion was unlikely to ever take to leeching. Eddard had first thought the captain of the Second Sons as a mere paymaster made leader for dislike of the man now his second, an unpleasant man named Kasporio, but he’d learned better since. The sellsword’s hands were still stained with ink, but a quill could be more than dangerous than steel if the right man wielded it. Istarion had been ruthless in calculating in quelling the unrest that had plagued the early days of Sere’s liberation, sending his men into winesinks and dark alleys to ferret out the worst of the troublemakers and seeing them dead without riot following. He had another talent, yet more useful. Tybero Istarion had friends in many places, and those friends still spoke to him. Though he commanded only five hundred men, the sellsword had better knowledge of the fires spreading across Essos than any of the captains of the Dragonhunt.  
  
“Lord Stark,” the man greeted him, rising to incline his head.  
  
Men often did when Ned passed, these days.  
  
“Captain Istarion,” the Stark replied. “This must be a delicate matter, for you to request we speak alone.”  
  
Though Eddard had taken habit of meeting once a sennight with the older man, it would be a few days yet before their usual council. The last time Istarion had made this request, it had been to pass word of Tyrosh landing their host in the Disputed Lands. The sellsword invited him to sit, though Ned declined wine when offered. Sucking at his teeth, the captain poured himself a cup.  
  
“I yet remember the circumstances that saw us meet, my lord,” he began, and Ned’s eyes sharpened.  
  
The Second Sons had been seeking to enter Rhaegar’s pay through delivering him with Ser Jaime, when he’d fallen upon them in the hills of Andalos. This would not be a trifling conversation, wherever he led from here.  
  
“You have heard Volantis is at war, yes?” the man said.  
  
Ned nodded silently.  
  
“Reaching my friends in the city took longer than I would have wished, with such matters busying the city,” Istarion said. “But I now have word. This red dragon that is slain on your banners? He has been much talked of, these last months.”  
  
“Rhaegar still lives, then,” the Stark grimly said.  
  
“And was twice shamed for it,” the man smiled thinly. “He was allowed to enter the Black Walls as a foreign curiosity, but was sent back before nightfall. The Triarchs have no use for a king without a kingdom.”  
  
“There is to be no alliance,” Ned said, and the relief was heavy.  
  
The Volantenes might think it better bargain to surrender Rhaegar than test the wroth of the Dragonhunt. Robert would be displeased for the lack of a fight but Eddard had read of Volantis. It would not be a city easily taken, no matter their numbers.  
  
“There is,” Istarion said, wheezing a laugh. “But not with him. That is the second shame, my lord. The Targaryen thought to buy slaves to raise a host, but his own blood turned on him. Once-queen Rhaella betrothed her other son to a daughter of the Staegone, and now dwells within that house. It is said she offered three dragon eggs for this privilege, the very same Rhaegar sought to trade for an army.”  
  
“And he allowed this?” Ned frowned.  
  
Istarion shrugged.  
  
“What can this toothless drake do?” the sellsword said. “Knock at the gates of the Black Walls to demand treasure held by the Old Blood? He would be run out of the city.”  
  
There was cold satisfaction to take form this, Eddard thought. The Dragonhunt was foreign to these shores and had earned the enmity of many through its works, but its victories has given men pause. Rhaegar had nothing to his name but defeats and flight, and been served the bitter comeuppance he had earned by taking Lyanna.  
  
“He is not dead yet,” the captain of the Second Sons cautioned. “His exiles remain with him, and to gain the wealth to swell their numbers they have come into the service of Volantis as sellswords. My last knowledge of them has them marching on Dagger Lake with the Golden Company.”  
  
“Let him try the steel,” Ned said softly. “Let his loyalists bleed out on the Rhoyne until he stands alone, surrounded by strangers that will turn on him. That will have the shape of justice in my eyes.”  
  
“Norvos and Qohor will not surrender easily,” Istarion agreed. “If Volantis rules the river the tariffs will bleed them dry. Ah, and there is last news. Lesser than the rest. The Targaryen seeks solace in faith, I have been told. He took a young red priest named Benerro in his service.”  
  
The red faith? Eddard knew little of them, save that they worshipped a god of fire and decried all other faiths as false. They had not been many in Braavos and Pentos, where there was a foreign god for every ship and tower.  
  
“Might they fund him?” Ned asked.  
  
“It seems unlikely,” Istarion said. “The high priest in Volantis is friend to the Triarchs, and they care not for your man. A matter amusing but of little import.”  
  
They would be wrong in this.  
  
\--  
  
Ser Gerion Lannister returned to the fold three days before the Dragonhunt left Sere, and brought stories even wilder than his last. He’d broken through three blockades on his stolen carrack named the  _Last Laugh_ , since they’d last seen him, and tickled the fleets of both Myr and Tyrosh. He was brought into council with the four captains, and demanded to be plied with drink before he told his stories.  
  
“Ah,” he sighed, wetting his lips on Myrish red, “truly, we must have the best cellars of any army in the known world.”  
  
“Think of what we’ll find in Myr, Lannister,” Robert grinned. “The ruin of a slaver kingdom should be well irrigated.”  
  
Ned cleared his throat and the two men looked guilty, like boys caught with stolen sweetmeats.  
  
“So many things you lot have missed, holed up in your city,” Ser Gerion said. “I am uncertain where to begin.”  
  
“The beginning, perhaps,” the Blackfish drily said.  
  
“There’s that famous Tully wit,” the Lannister drawled. “Is it true trouts cannot close their mouths for they are always gaping?”  
  
Ned sighed, and let the japes run their course before discreetly steering the talk back to what must be learned.  
  
“Grandest news of the lot,” Ser Gerion said. “Lys has tired of straddling the fence. Our friends in Braavos have been sending envoys to them, and gained much. The magisters of Lys have recognized Prince Mylerio as the rightful ruler of Pentos and those that oppose him as wicked invaders.”  
  
Ser Jaime leaned forward, eyes bright.  
  
“They’ve entered the war, nuncle?” he asked.  
  
“Their fleet sailed past bare naked Tyrosh and tangled with the Myrmen in the Sea of Myrth,” Ser Gerion said. “A crushing victory, I am told. What is left of Myr’s fleet is scattered all over the coasts, the Archon recalled the ships blockading Pentos in terror.”  
  
“The Tyroshi host is still in the Disputed Lands,” the Blackfish said, breathing in sharply.  
  
“The fucks are stuck on the wrong shore with no way across,” Robert roared out, laughing a storm.  
  
“Prince Salladhor Saan means to breach the fortress with his own fleet while Lys and Tyrosh fight at sea,” the older Lannister said. “He told me this himself, a sennight ago.”  
  
“You met with the pirates,” Ned said.  
  
“I sailed into a spot of trouble on my way back,” Ser Gerion said. “Half a dozen Myrmen ships that fled the battle, and thought to make a meal of me. I meantto lose them in the Stepstones but we both ran into Saan’s tender embrace instead.”  
  
“He released you without ransom?” the Blackish frowned.  
  
“Friendly man, the Prince of the Narrow Sea,” the Lannister said. “One who means to be on good terms with the Dragonhunt should it take Myr. I have a very flowery letter saying as much in my affairs. As for my pursuers, his strength has now swelled by six ships.”  
  
“He still has one of the dragonspawn,” Robert grunted. “Means to marry her when she flowers, if Tatters speaks true.  
  
“He does not,” Ser Gerion replied. “He tried to silence the talk, but ale loosens tongues. Monford Velaryon convinced one of the sellsails to him, stole Daenerys Targaryen and fled the Stepstones.”  
  
“Sailing for Volantis,” Ned said.  
  
“Mayhaps,” the older Lannister said. “Prince Salladhor will be hunting them, regardless. Princess Daenerys might return to Bloodstone before long.”  
  
The wine flowed and stories that Eddard suspected were half lies and more told by Gerion until the moon was high in the sky. The war could wait until the morrow. It would not wait much longer than that, though, for the doom of Myr had been rung.


	38. Chapter 34

Noon had come and gone, though the sun gentled none. Many a man had told Ned that Myr would be a hard city to storm, yet until he saw it with his own eyes he did not truly grasp this. The curtain walls, he thought, stood over sixty feet tall. Setting upon them with ladders and hooks would be black madness, a slaughter of crossbows and falling men. The Blackfish had already begun to see to the building of camps, the older man no stranger to sieges, but the Stark had taken three thousand of the Unshackled and set them to different purposes. The learned men Eddard had drawn for Sere put down stones along a wavering line that arced around the city and behind them the freedmen began to dig a trench. Carpenters and soldiers already scoured the fields for trees to cut and houses to dismantle, charged with the making of a palisade behind the trench. The blacksmiths he left to Ser Brynden, who would know where to let them set their hearths. Atop the walls, distant silhouettes watched them.  
  
Siege engines had been unmade in Sere then charged onto carts for the march south, and their assembly begun in earnest. Three great trebuchets, a score of scorpions and battering rams aplenty. Of ladders Eddard brooked no talk, for crossbows and heights cared nothing for the bravery of men. The Myrmen, it seemed, thought that the ramparts would be their salvation. The Dragonhunt had come south unopposed, without even outriders to tail them. The Cage of Rats had struck deep terror in their bones, and when Robert returned to the camp with escaped freedmen they learned of the situation brewing in the city.  
  
“Slaves may no longer touch blades of any sort, my lords,” an old freedmen said. “Not even the cooks. Any seen with one is to be crucified, no matter who they belong to.”  
  
“And there was no unrest in the city?” Ned asked.  
  
“The shit diggers tried to flee through the sewers, but they were caught and now lie on display in the Place of Scales,” a young girl said. “Still did, when I tried my luck with the sea, but the thirst will have taken them by now.”  
  
“The guards and their host,” the Blackfish said. “Have you heard numbers?”  
  
“They say the city guard numbers ten thousand,” the old man offered. “They speak not of the army, though the magisters decreed any free man of age must learn the crossbow and serve on the walls.”  
  
Ser Brynden frowned at the words, as well he should. Myr was a city larger than King’s Landing, and the seat of the Iron Throne boasted five hundred thousand souls. Terrified shopkeepers would avail nothing on the field, but atop those ramparts? Arrows killed just as dead whether they were fired by a lamb or a lion. The former slaves were given leave to join the camp as they wished, many of the younger men eager to enrol with the Unshackled. The battle at Sere had seen that name resound across Essos, for good or ill.  
  
“My men saw fishing boats out at sea,” Ser Jaime said. “We’ll run out of grub long before the slavers do.”  
  
Six months was the longest they could last, Ned had already told them. And this only held if no freedmen flocked from the countryside to join them, a fancy already put to rest before the first day of the siege was done. Hundreds had already come. Desperate bedslaves that had been abandoned, field slaves who’d hidden as the magisters fled to the city, children who’d been judged nothing but mouths to feed by their masters.  
  
“We’ll strip the outskirts bare,” Robert said. “That ought to buy us a few months.”  
  
It would not, Eddard knew. Not with the masses that would gather to them. If Myr had not fallen by the sixth month, the Dragonhunt would have to retreat. Neither the Unshackled nor the men of Westeros were well learned in siege work. There had been little of that in the rebellion, and Pentos had fallen without them even being in sight of its walls. The ruse that had taken Sere would not bring victory twice.  
  
“Do what you can,” the dark-haired man said. “So will I. No city is impregnable.”  
  
“It’s pregnable,” the Blackfish grunted. “It’ll just cost more than we can afford, Stark.”  
  
There was truth in that, and so Ned did not speak otherwise. Leaving behind the other captains, he made his way to the Unshackled digging the trenches. Only a light guard of shieldmaidens followed him, ten of them led by Dacey Mormont. Maege’s daughter knew his moods well, and left him to his silence as he watched the freedmen work. There were, he saw with something akin to awe, no shirkers. Thousands of men dark and light of skin, shovels and picks in hand, and none of them balked at work so many knights of the Seven Kingdoms would have thought beneath them. The Stark wore only a grey tunic, not plate, though he had a sword at his hip. Clenching his fingers, Eddard Stark undid his belt and dropped his blade onto the grass.  
  
“Lord Stark?” one of the shieldmaidens said.  
  
Northerner, by the sound of her. One of those who’d followed Maege across the sea. Dacey said nothing, watching him with calm eyes.  
  
“We are not above this,” Ned said. “Not above them.”  
  
Leaving his guards behind, he went to the trench and clapped a man on the shoulder. The freedman flinched when he recognized who had lain a hand on him, but Eddard simply told him to rest for a while and have a drink of water. He took the shovel and rammed his foot onto the iron, digging into the earth as the Unshackled eyed him with a strange look on his face. A clatter of steel, mace and shield joined his sword. Dacey claimed an old man’s pick and flourished the tool, denting a rock. She shot him a defiant grin, standing at his side. Ned’s lips twitched and they began to toil under the sun.  
  
\--  
  
“Gods, that was harder work than killing,” Dacey said.  
  
Eddard dipped the cloth into the washbasin and carefully wiped his face again. He’d returned to his tent drenched in sweat when night came calling. If he’d been any slower to wash and change his shirt, the Mormont would have caught him half-naked. He glanced at her, leaning against the writing desk he’d had carried from Sere. A luxury, that, but one he’d direly needed. Her shirt was loose and only half-laced, baring skin that contrasted between tanned and not. The swell of her breasts could be glimpsed and the Stark looked away before his eyes could linger. That her trousers kept to the curves of her legs so closely had not escape his attention. Dropping the cloth back into the basin, Ned brushed back his hair. It had not been cut since he’d come to Essos, and grown long.  
  
“You seem grim,” she said.  
  
“I am worried,” Eddard said.  
  
The dark-haired woman chuckled.  
  
“When are you not?” she teased.  
  
He was not so callow as to blush at that, but the rejoinder struck true.  
  
“There were no Westerosi but us digging that trench,” he said.  
  
“The knights have other duties,” Dacey said. “And most our host is from Essos now.”  
  
“Yes,” Ned said quietly. “Yet few of our officers are.”  
  
There had been no quarrel born of this, and mayhaps he was borrowing trouble by lingering on the matter, but the sights of the day remained burned in the Stark’s eyes. Men with brands, digging under the sun at the order of those born free. Few of the Unshackled knew war the way the Westerosi who had answered Robert’s call did, it was true. And highborn were born to command, as was their duty. Yet Ned thought of the last council in Sere, when names had been proposed for the man who would hold the city for the Dragonhunt. None of them had ever thought to look to the freedmen who’d lived Sere their entire lives. This was a campaign, and to look at proven men for such duties was only proper. Yet Eddard thought of what would come after, when Myr fell. Men fresh from the shackles would not be eager to trade magisters for foreign rulers. Nor should they. Voice must be given to those they would rule, he thought. His father had not asked of his lords to send grain to Winterfell without granting them leave to speak at his table.  
  
“Sit,” Dacey said. “Have a drink. Let your mind rest for a night.”  
  
“Arnolf will have numbers for me,” Ned said. “Of refugees now sharing our camp.”  
  
“He will have them in the morning still, Ned,” Dacey gently replied.  
  
Her hand was warm on his shoulder, and pressed him down on a seat. It lingered there as she moved behind him, the other coming to the back of his neck to knead it. The touch was certain, without hesitation, and he allowed himself to enjoy it for a moment before turning.  
  
“Dacey,” he began, and she kissed him.  
  
There was nothing tender about it. It was hungry, and she bit his lips before withdrawing with a smile. It was an effort not to lean back into her.  
  
“Not made of stone, after all,” she said.  
  
“I would not,” he said, and the words he sought did not come.  
  
 _Dishonour you_ , he wanted to say, but the glint in her dark eyes spoke little of that.  
  
“I will not marry,” Dacey announced, and with a laugh she moved to straddle him. “Do not trouble yourself of it.”  
  
His hands moved to catch her waist, but he found himself cupping her arse instead. The cloth did nothing to hide the heat of her and he felt himself harden as she moved against him. She was no maid, he thought, but neither was he.  
  
“I will hear no more protest, not with that against me,” Dacey Mormont told him, and her hips moved against to make her point.  
  
Ned drew her close, kissing her quiet even as she grinned. Her shirt was thrown to the side as his hands sought the gasps he’d been so careful not to think of, and there was little more talking that night.  
  
He was not made of stone, after all.


	39. Chapter 35

They camped a week beneath the walls before Myr stirred to move. The trench had been dug and the palisade raised, men behind it keeping eyes on the city. No sortie would catch the Dragonhunt unawares. Ned had spoken to the Blackfish, and seen to it men of all stripes wielded picks and shovels. The matter of officers had been thornier, and not as simple as he had believed. Already most serjeants and company leaders of the Unshackled were freedmen, for scattering the Westerosi among them had been judged foolish by the Tully. Words to Ser Jaime saw to it that a call was made for any of the former slaves who knew how to ride horses and wield a sword, but there were few horses to spare and to train a knight would take years. A handful of promising squires were picked, and later the Lannister told Ned it had been a decision in need of being made.  
  
“We lose more riders than come from the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Jaime said. “Another few battles and our horse will wane, if we do not recruit Essosi.”  
  
It was a grim thing, more so when weighed in full. The heavy horse was the sharpest blade of the Dragonhunt against the magisters, for they had little more than lancers and freeriders to match it, and should it dull in the battles to come it would be crippling. Another bleeding wound that would need salve when Myr fell, for it was fool’s hope to think so many riders could be kept with only the coffers of Sere behind them. The mounts would have to come from Westeros and Braavos, for what slaver city would trade these knowing they would be fielded against them? The Reach bred good chargers, Robert said. Sand steeds would have done well by their outriders, even if they could not withstand proper armour, but they had no friends in Dorne. Ned had not forgot Jon Arryn’s warning. The Red Viper had crossed the sea, and the Dragonhunt bore men he had cause to feud with. The Dornish were poison when slighted, his father had once told him. To both their own and their foes.  
  
Eddard rose with dawn, on the day the slavers came to treat. The trebuchets had been raised in full by the carpenters the previous day, and he meant to test the walls with them as soon as light allowed. He was not alone in his bed when he woke, and had not been since that first night. Dacey’s dark locks were spread across the covers, those laughing dark eyes kept closed by sleep. None of the shieldmaidens had spoken of this, though they must have known. Maege Mormont as well, though she sometimes gave Eddard a knowing smile when her daughter teased him before the others. The Stark was unsure of where to stand in this, and so kept quiet. He left his lover to her sleep and put on one of his few remaining tunics in Stark grey that bore the direwolf of his house on them. It led him to strange moods, seeing use discard them one after another. As if these shores were wearing away at who he’d thought he was, one tide at a time.  
  
Ned was not certain the man he’d been a year ago would have thought much of the man he was now.  
  
He broke his fast with the Blackfish, who was tearing away a dried pork by a fire as the camp woke up around them. Gruel for him, with dark beer to wash it away. Ser Brynden was a quiet man, in the mornings, a habit that was match for the Stark’s. Licking salt off a finger, the Tully cleared his throat.  
  
“We have another,” he said. “Girl from Naath, pretty as a butterfly. Just begun to swell.”  
  
Ned’s face turned somber.  
  
“That makes eight since he came to Essos,” the Stark sighed.  
  
“More, I’d wager,” the Blackfish snorted. “He ploughed a few fields before you caught up up in Andalos.”  
  
The first few of Robert’s bastards would be born soon, Ned thought. Women had always loved Robert Baratheon, save for the one he’d loved the most. There were brews that could be drunk to ensure no child would come of a shared bed. Dacey took moon tea, for she sought no child or reprieve from the battlefields. Yet not all had the herbs, and some of the women who’d lain with Robert had wanted a child. For now this was little but a mark of his foster-brother’s carelessness, but that would change when the years passed. Tough none of the captains had ever spoke the words, they meant to see Robert the king of Myr. Mayhaps another name would be given to the realm carved from the domain of the magisters, but that would be the truth of it. In time there would be need for a heir, and the Baratheon had told Ned he would never wed.  _Even second sons can rise, in Essos_ , the Black Pearl had once said to him.  _Bastards as well_ , he thought. Robert would laugh at talk of a bastard crown, but Eddard saw eight Daemon Blackfyres in the making. It would have to be seen to before it came to that.  
  
“Is there a name?” Ned wondered. “For bastards born in Essos.”  
  
“Merchants quibble less over the right side of the sheets,” Ser Brynden shrugged. “Mayhaps we will choose the name ourselves. East? Summer?”  
  
 _Summer_ , Eddard thought. The name had him uneasy. Starks were not made for it. He would not have pursued the conversation, but was not granted leave for silence. The guards on the palisade were calling out. Myr had sent out envoys, Ned learned when he joined them. Twelve of them, under truce banner. The slavers wanted to treat with the Dragonhunt.  
  
\--  
  
Robert was still drunk from the last evening, which Ned thought a mercy of sorts. Had his head been pounding, the dark-haired man would have been a great deal terser with the magisters. The Captain of the South was lounging on an ornate bench, cup of wine in hand and a half-finished bowl of stew at his side. Ser Jaime stood behind him, face still as a pond. His hand never left the pommel of his sword, and it was strange to Eddard to remember that the Lannister had once worn a white cloak. It seemed another life, though the name he’d earned by breaking his oath had followed him to these shores. The Blackfish sat at Robert’s left, grinding a whetstone against a knife with a hard smile. Ned himself sat to the right, eyeing the envoys with distaste. Though twelve had been glimpsed from a distance, only two were truly envoys. The remainder were slaves, carrying gifts.  
  
Five were beautiful young girls, none looking the same. Summer Islands to the olive skin of Slaver’s Bay, and even an almond-eyed girl that must hail from the far east. Every single one of them wore silks that hinted more than covered, and smiles that were more trained than true. They had been the first gift. The other five slaves were large eunuchs that had carried chests with them, four of which lay open before the captains of the Dragonhunt. Gold and jade, lace and jewels, nigh spilling from the sculpted wood containing them. The two magisters had presented them with great ceremony after offering their names. The younger one, lean and hard-eyed, had called himself Magister Tamar. The other was stooped and always smiling, and in a voice like honey named himself Magister Dhralin.  
  
“Honoured captains, the great city of Myr comes to greet you,” Tamar smilingly said.  
  
“The very day the trebuchets would see first use,” Ser Jaime drawled. “How farsighted of you.”  
  
“A trifling matter, this,” Magister Dhralin dismissed. “Myr’s walls are tall and strong, stones are but mere rain to them. In truth, so is this quarrel you have sought with the magisters.”  
  
Robert spat to the side, then chuckled. The Myrmen’s faces twisted with distaste at the sight.  
  
“Not the rain the worries you, is it?” he said. “You want to avoid a storm.”  
  
“Storms come,” Dhralin said. “Storms pass. Myr was outlasted many of them. But why must we be at odds, honoured captains? The magisters seek no enmity with you, though you have done us great injury.”  
  
“The magisters stand alone,” Ned said, watching them calmly. “Tyrosh guards its holdings in the Disputed Lands and loves you not. Lys has turned on you. Your fleet is scattered, your armies broken.”  
  
Magister Dhralin’s lips thinned in anger. It was the other that replied.  
  
“A tiger remains a tiger, even wounded,” Magister Tamar said. “I thought you hunters of dragons, honoured captains. There are no dragons in Myr.”  
  
“But many shackles,” Robert said, eyes cold. “I’ve acquired a distaste for those.”  
  
Tamar held up his hands, as if bemused.  
  
“Lord Captain, let us be frank,” he said. “This lie has already gained you an army. What need do you have to speak it further? Let Myr be Myr, and the Sunset Kingdoms live as they wish. You do these slaves no service by granting them false freedom. They know not what to do with it. A gentle guiding hand must soothe them.”  
  
Ned thought of the mine, then. Of butchered corpses penned like animals.  _Magister Herion ordered us to get rid of slaves unfit for work_ , the soldier had said. He met Tamar’s eyes until the man looked away.  
  
“I hear a lot of whining,” the Blackfish said. “Yet no offer. Did you come to weep at our knees? You’ll get a chuckle for it, but Tullys have no alms for fools and magisters.”  
  
“The magisters, in their wisdom, have seen that valour begets rank,” Magister Dhralin said. “Should you lay down your arms and swear eternal friendship with Myr, you will be named magisters and rulers of Sere. The fields of the northern march will be returned to their proper owners, as well as their slaves, yet you will be allowed to collect tithe from the march.”  
  
“Land we already hold,” Ser Jaime said. “Lives not yours to bargain for. You promise thin air.”  
  
“We promise peace,” Magister Tamar said. “We grant you in truth rights you have stolen. Is this not the act of just and merciful men?”  
  
Robert quaffed his ale and dropped the cup on the ground. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  
  
“Listen closely,” he said. “What do you hear?”  
  
The magisters hesitated.  
  
“Nothing,” Dhralin frowned.  
  
“Fire,” Robert said. “From Pentos to this tent, there is fire. Your petty little kingdom is aflame, slaver. And we bore the fucking torch. You can bargain with men, magister, but you can’t with the blaze. Burn or flee.”  
  
Magister Tamar smiled darkly.  
  
“Eunuch,” he said. “Present our last gift.”  
  
The large man lumbered forward and set down the wooden chest, casting it open.  
  
“You would bleed for the slaves, sunset lords,” Magister Dhralin said. “It is only just they bleed for you as well.”  
  
There were heads inside, Ned saw. Too many for them to be the heads of grown men. The stench of blood filled the tent.  
  
“Fourteen,” Tamar said. “You have darkened our doorsteps seven days. For every day your host remain, another pair will be presented to you. Leave, sellswords. Myr will not be humbled by the likes of you.”  
  
There was utter silence in the tent, for a long moment, then Robert rose to his feet.  
  
“Seize them,” he bellowed, and armed men flowed into the tent.  
  
The magisters yelled and one of the eunuchs thought to struggle but he took a spear to the stomach from one of the Unshackled. The sight of blood silenced the slavers.  
  
“Robert,” Ned said. “They are envoys.”  
  
“Aye,” Robert Baratheon said, his voice deceptively calm. “And to Myr they will be returned.”  
  
His fists clenched, dark fury writ on his face.  
  
“By trebuchet,” he hissed.


	40. Chapter 36

Three days now the trebuchets had been pounding at the walls. Ned stood atop the palisade, his retinue behind him, and watched another stone hit the curtain wall of Myr. The ramparts were too thick. Ser Brynden had hoped that the Myrmen had kept them narrow yet tall, built for a mummery that would discourage storm but fail in the face of siege engines. It had been a vain hope, for the trebuchets had dented the walls but failed to level them. The gates were yet more solid, strengthened by bars of steel from the inside. A breach might be possible, should the engines hammer at the same wall, but it would take months. It would be a gamble, and a dangerous one, for while the Dragonhunt stood in the shadow of Myr it knew nothing of the others hosts on the field. Tyrosh could have abandoned the Disputed Lands and stolen a march on them and they would not know of it until their outriders saw the Tyroshi.  
  
Ships still set from and for the city’s harbour, and though the Blackfish has place scorpions on the coast to fire at them the Myrmen had learned to keep too far for the bolts. They’d tried to land men at night to torch the engines, once, but Ser Lyn had caught sight of the sail under the stars and ridden them down with the horse from the Vale. The prisoners taken knew little of the plans of the magisters, but had been part of the garrison before the wars. They’d been sent on the promise that their debts would be forgiven if they succeeded. They also gave Ned a notion of the number of trained men on the other side. The city guard numbered ten thousand, as the escaped slaves had said, while the army of Myr numbered five thousand. Twice this had been armed with crossbows and sent to the walls, free men all. They were said to be disorderly, and often assigned duties the soldiers disdained.  
  
“We breach the walls and that lot will fold under the first charge,” the Blackfish said. “Conscripts do not have the stomach to stand against proper soldiery.”  
  
“I’ve not seen the city guard on the walls,” Ser Jaime said. “That is telling.”  
  
“Keeping the slaves in check so it doesn’t fall like Sere,” Robert grunted. “They learned. Yet Brynden told it true. We get a breach and it all goes to pieces.”  
  
“We do not have a breach,” Ned said. “The trebuchets are not enough.”  
  
“Saw a stone skip across a bastion this morning,” Ser Jaime admitted. “We could have twice as many and it would be no sure thing.”  
  
“We dig under, then,” the Blackfish said. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Ugly work, and risky.”  
  
“We begin behind the palisade,” Eddard said. “They will watch for it, but let us not give them open warning.”  
  
“Sieges,” Robert spat. “Give me a battle any day. This is spadework and stone-tossing, not war.”  
  
“They did try battles, Robert,” Ser Jaime drawled. “It happened to cost them a few armies.”  
  
Ned put word out among the Unshackled for men who had once toiled in mines, and found fewer than a hundred. It was a beginning. Among them, an older man going by Red Rat was the most able. He’d once been charged with overseeing the work of other slaves by his owner, and knew more than the others. Red Rat’s shoulder was crooked and his smile missed teeth, but he was tall and thickly muscled. He bowed when Eddard met with him, to the Stark’s discomfort.  
  
“You are not sworn to me,” Ned said.  
  
“Oaths are nothing,” the crooked man replied in bastard Valyrian. “We know who you are, Lord of Gallows. We see, and the masters will see as well. I wait for it.”  
  
Gnarled fingers formed the almost-circle, the broken shackle carved into trees across the west where magisters still hung from branches. The was a fervor to Red Rat’s eyes. Robert had spoken of fire, to the envoys, and Eddard saw it then. There was a burning thing in the freedman’s gaze that would devour Myr whole, given chance. The city would not fall gently. As the trebuchets kept pounding at the walls above, men began to dig. Three tunnels, Red Rat said. Myr stood on fertile land, not stone, and an entire span of wall could be collapsed. It was hard and thankless toil that Ned saw to it was given to all of the Dragonhunt in turns. Long chains of earth-filled baskets began to snake under the plains as the tunnels advanced. Day after day, week after week, month after month. None were spared. Robert spent a sennight covered in dirt digging with the freedmen, and loudly threatened to collapse the tunnel on Ser Jaime when he was slow to bring the slop at noon. The Lannister took his turn, crawling in the dark with Ned as they dug forward.  
  
Fortune was on their side, Red Rat said. They had lumber enough to put up solid supports and there was only a single collapse. Twenty diggers, dead in the blink of an eye as the ceiling fell.  _This is war as well_ , Ned thought.  _Men die to it._  Three months and a fortnight before they believed they came to be close to the walls. Above there was no sign of the tunnels and the Blackfish had ordered the occasional foray to tickle the Myrmen, though stayed out of crossbow range. The trebuchets groaned from dawn to dusk, and collapsed the upper half of a bastion to the east. There was talk of ladders to take it, but while they were made no assault was ordered. Only desperation would see down tread down that path, for taking the bastion would be butchery to their men. When the fourth moon passed, Red Rat said, the wall would collapse from below. If work did not slow.  
  
The Myrmen found them first.  
  
An hour before nightfall the diggers ran into a tunnel coming from behind the walls. The magisters had not been fooled. Vicious struggle between freedmen and Myr conscripts flared, but the Dragonhunt’s paths were long and winding. The warnings came too late. Myrmen forced their way deep into the tunnels and set the buttresses aflame, unmaking months of work in moments. Ned had men dig through the night but found the enemy had done the same on every buttress as they drew back. There was no salvaging of the toil to be had, much as it burned. They held council that night, the grim truths of the siege beyond denial. Ser Lyn and Ser Gerion were sent for as well, and Arnolf Karstark with them. The northerner bore news as dark as the others of that day.  
  
“A month, at our current rationing,” Lord Arnolf said. “Then the men go on empty stomachs. My lords, there are too many mouths to feed. Foraging only stretched the rope.”  
  
“Send them all to Sere,” Ser Lyn said. “The Second Sons can fill their bellies.”  
  
“The roads north are lawless,” Ned said. “They will be without protection.”  
  
“They are starving their protectors, my lord,” Corbray drily replied.  
  
There was truth in that. The advice was cold, but so was the man.  
  
“I look for a victory, not talk of supplies,” Robert said.  
  
“There are tunnels beneath the walls, though not ours,” Lord Arnolf said. “Should we dig at the feet of the rampart and collapse them forcefully, it may yet fall.”  
  
“They have crossbows and scorpions on the walls, Karstark,” the Blackfish said. “No mantlet will suffer these, and they’ll toss everything they have at us. It’ll be butchery worse than trying the bastion.”  
  
“We’ve rams and men to hold them,” Ser Jaime said. “Mayhaps ladders to the bastion as we knock the gate.”  
  
“They’ll send the soldiers to the ladders and their conscripts to the gate, my lord of Lannister,” Ser Lyn smiled sharply. “They have the numbers for it. It would be a grand failure indeed.”  
  
The enmity there had not been buried, though Ned had never seen it spread further than jibes. Corbray was never seen in the sparring yards when Ser Jaime graced them, well aware the Lannister would seek redress for their old trial by combat.  
  
“Time will not avail us,” Lord Arnolf said grimly. “It is a pleasant siege, for the magisters. Yesterday I saw a Volantene wine trader sail into their harbour. Victory will only come if we grasp it ourselves.”  
  
Ser Gerion laughed, sudden and bright.  
  
“They do keep their harbour open to all,” he grinned, leaning forward. “I believe we have casks of wine still, my lords, and I have a ship. I would trade with our dear friends behind the walls.”  
  
On the third week of the third of month of the Dragonhunt’s siege of Myr, the maesters later wrote, began the Battle of the Casks.


	41. Fall of Myr I

**Addam Marbrand**  
  
Ser Damon had been livid for days, and though the Lannister knew better than to speak before the men in the tent he was free with his tongue. Addam misliked it, but Lord Tywin’s own goodbrother was not a man to discipline lightly even if Ser Jaime had named him captain of the westermen in his absence. That, for all the burdens that came with it, pleased the Marbrand a great deal. When they returned to the realm, he felt such a history would see him rise. The Lord of the Rock would know him to have been the right hand of his son in exile and reward him duly for it, for though Tywin Lannister was a harsh man he was also generous to those that well served his house. The fate of the Reynes and the Tarbecks had taught the Westerlands to fear their master, but favours bestowed upon the worthy had taught it to love the hand at the keel since.  
  
No seat could be kept with fear alone, a lesson his father had said was well worth learning. And when Ser Jaime became lord in truth? He would look to his friends for council above men he had not seen in seven years, men he had shed blood with and shared grief. There were some who sneered at Kevan Lannister, japed that he’d never had a thought Lord Tywin did not have first, but that was viper tongues at work. Ser Kevan Lannister held no lands and commanded no army of his own, but for all that in the Westerlands he was second only to the Lord of the Rock. The trust of a great lord was power as well, and though Addam would not trade Ashemark for all the gold in Essos he did not men to grow old in his father’s keep and die unremembered. Jaime Lannister was not his father, and there would be great upendings when he returned home.  
  
Addam would see to it that House Marbrand rose through them, loyal and true and more influential than any other.  
  
“Digging in the dirt like beasts of burden,” Ser Damon spat. “The Seven smiled upon us when King Stannis took the crown. There is arrogance and then there is this. Would that Ser Jaime had trusted me to protest.”  
  
Addam hid a cold smile behind a cup of wine. That last wound stung as hard as the digging, he thought. Damon Lannister was eldest of the westermen here, and kin to Ser Jaime. He’d expected to be given command when the Young Lion joined the mad design that the captains of the Dragonhunt had wrought to breach Myr. To the men, it had been told that Ser Gerion and his nephew had sailed to Pentos to seek the help of the Tattered Prince. Only a fool would have believed Myr had no ears in the camp, and the ruse would rely on surprise if it was to succeed at all.  
  
“We took vows,” a knight in Crakehall colours said. “But they did not speak of digging with slaves.”  
  
The Strongboar quelled him with a dark look, but Addam raised a hand. Better the wound be lanced before it turned even more sour. The talk was not from Lannister men alone, for Corbray had been seen allowing the same from some of his lickspittles. Though never partaking himself, the Marbrand had noted. Lyn Corbray was vicious as a snake and just as cunning. The Riverlanders were split, as was ever the wont of that breed, some second sons balking at what they saw as the duties of footmen while the smallfolk brought by the Blackfish had only been glad of the larger rations served those who dug in the tunnels. As for the men of the Stormlands, to them Robert Baratheon’s words were as the writ of the Warrior himself. Words of displeasure from others were answered by boots and broken teeth. The hard savages that followed Eddard Stark would have tread barefoot on thorns if the Lord of Gallows ordered it, though Arnolf Karstark had been stiffly displeased at the work. The discontent was lesser there, Addam had found. Northerners were poor as smallfolk, so he supposed it was a lesser fall.  
  
“Oath was given,” Addam said. “Would you have Ser Jaime break his, Ser Damon? Seven years of service in Essos, ‘til we hang the King That Ran.”  
  
“Service, not servitude,” the Lannister replied.  
  
 _I gave you chance to retreat with grace, ser,_  Addam thought.  _Do not begrudge me what you bring on your head._  
  
“This kind of talk,” the Marbrand said, “is why you have never stood before the Council of Four. You do not grasp what is being built here.”  
  
Ser Damon pinkened in anger.  
  
“They mean to make us all lords, my friends,” Addam said. “Yet these freedmen know no crown. Were never taught their duties as smallfolk. They must learn to love us before kneeling. We granted them freedom and swords, but for those to remain in our service they must be bound to us.”  
  
“And this humiliation will teach them respect?” Ser Damon hissed. “How are we to rule men that saw us digging in the dirt?”  
  
“Soldiers don’t die for strangers,” Ser Lyle said.  
  
Addam inclined his head in respect at the Strongboar. Though they were rivals for Ser Jaime’s favour, there was room enough for two men at the feet of the Lord of the Rock. Clawing at each other would only weaken them enough for others to wedge in their names.  
  
“I spoke with Lord Robert, today,” the Marbrand said. “We are to ready for battle. Who will die on the walls, Ser Damon? Not us.”  
  
He toasted his cup at the others.  
  
“We dig with them,” he said. “They die for us. And then they kneel, willingly. Is a little toil not worth lordships for all?”  
  
The sound of the men laughing was the sound of Damon Lannister losing the last of his influence.  
  
\--  
  
 **Brynden Tully**  
  
Brynden had fought on these shores before, for a Targaryen king. That he had returned to them to break one rarely failed to amuse. Yet what had been the War of the Ninepenny King, compared to what they now undertook? A few skirmishes on windswept rocks, thinning the scum of the Free Cities for them. The Tully had not thought another war would come in his lifetime, and was twice proven wrong. Robert’s Rebellion had seen the greatest battles since the first Blackfyre Rebellion shake the realm, and now the Dragonhunt sought greater battles still. The others were young men, still drunk on the glory of it, and their string of victories had blinkered them to starker truths. They ill understood the shape of what loomed ahead. Pentos falling had been opportunity to the magisters, a twist in their game but no true interruption. They knew the Tattered Prince, and though he had bled their kind to cement his throne the magisters had bled each other over a few leagues of farmland in the Disputed Lands every decade since the Century of Blood.  
  
Taking Sere was a great defeat for Myr, but what did Lys or Tyrosh care for that? There had been servile rebellions before, some costlier than others. This most costly one would be the ruin of Myr’s ambitions for a generation and great blessing to its rivals. Yet it had grown beyond that, now. Nigh twenty thousands slaves with spears and swords was not something any of the great powers of Essos could ignore. The Free Cities fielded hosts of this size when warring upon each other. And it would keep growing, a river fed by a thousand tributaries wherever the Dragonhunt’s banner passed and there were shackles to be broken. There would be no peace, if Myr fell. Truce, mayhaps, until war could be readied again, but even before armies marched trade would be strangled and pacts made in candlelit studied. No magister could sleep soundly so long as an host of freedmen lived, proof that their reign was not untouchable. That their hold could be broken.  
  
Brynden knew that their ambitions would have never taken flight had the Dragonhunt not begun to free slaves, but oft wished they had taken a different path. The enemy, the man that truly needed to die, was in Volantis. Yet their host might never see the Black Walls in this lifetime, he knew. It would be marching every year to protect borders from the magisters on the prowl, buried in one war after another ‘til one side collapsed from exhaustion. The Tully was not so certain it would be the magisters that did. Beyond Volantis stood Slaver’s Bay and even more distant powers. All kept slaves and sold them west, w would not idly watch their profits whither. How many wars could be fought before a cause died? Noble words and noble acts did not ward men from ignoble deaths. Yet here he was, and here he would stay.  
  
The Blackfish had once thought he would live out his old age in some keep in the Riverlands, or mayhaps a knight under one of his nieces when he next quarrelled with Hoster. Instead he’d joined with a handful of young fools and declared war on half the world. The notion of rusting away in Cat or Lysa’s service seemed beneath him now, when he was molding together thousands of men into what might become the greatest host in Essos. The magisters still did not fully understand what was set against them. The Myrmen had sought to buy them with titles and graces or frighten them with savagery, and was this not telling? In Tyrosh, in Lys and even Volantis these great and powerful them still believed the Dragonhunt passing calamity. A fire that would gut out in a few years or turn to another assembly of princes they could treat with and cajole. If Brynden could build great enough a host, do it before the enemy grasped this was a battle to the death?  
  
Hoster had often called him a fool, and though this was a fool’s hope the Blackfish still caught himself hoping it of late. For all that, he best knew the fragility of what they were building. Robert Baratheon did not, for all his many virtues, and so Brynden had to turn to another captain to ensure the man who kept the Dragonhunt together did not die senselessly in the field. Eddard Stark was in his tent, as he always was after dark. Poring over ledgers, weaving gold into grain so that hunger was kept at bay yet another sennight. There were two shieldmaidens standing at his back, loyal shadows that preferred steel to skirts. One of them was Maege’s daughter, he saw. Brynden did not betray his amusement at how close she stood to the Stark. It was no secret that Lady Dacey had found her way to the Stark’s bed, though the Blackfish had been merciful enough not to tell Robert himself.  
  
“Ser Brynden,” Ned Stark greeted him calmly.  
  
“Eddard,” the Tully said. “A word, if you please.”  
  
He glanced at his guards. The shieldmaidens left the tent, Dacey Mormont’s hand brushing the northerner’s shoulder by mere happenstance. The grey-eyed man’s face warred between being pleased and pained for a moment before returning to the cool mask Eddard Stark was famed for. Before they’d left the Seven Kingdoms, Brynden had not thought much of this one. Quiet and dutiful, but made a follower by the gods. Robert Baratheon’s born second. He has surprised them all, this Lord of Gallows. Brynden had seen the shackle trees himself, the magisters hanging from there. Wherever the Dragonhunt passed they were left behind as grim monuments to the cold hatred the second son of House Stark kept for those who would put others in chains. The Tully did not mislike him, but was wary of what lay beyond that calm stare. Ned Stark was second only to his foster-brother in the Dragonhunt, and there was no denying who would succeed Robert should he fall.  _A hard man_ , Brynden thought,  _but not ambitious. Thank the Sevens for that._  
  
“You need to speak some sense in our Captain of the South,” the Blackfish bluntly said.  
  
The Stark’s brow creased, but he did not speak.  
  
“He wants to lead the first wave on the walls,” Brynden sighed.  
  
Ser Gerion and his nephew should be inside the city by now, and now the Dragonhunt awaited only their signal to strike. The dozen men smuggled through casks were meant to free and arm slaves inside the city to force open the doors, but this was doomed to failure if the whole of Myr stood against them. The host had to be occupied with another threat, and this meant assaulting the only bastion the trebuchets had managed to break.  
  
“Robert has always led from the front,” Lord Eddard said.  
  
“If he does he’ll fucking die in the front,” Brynden said. “They’ll topple the first few ladders, sure as day. He shouldn’t take the field at all until we have foothold on the bastion, should we even manage that.”  
  
Cool grey eyes studied him, then the Stark nodded.  
  
“I’ll speak to him,” the other man said.  
  
 _Another month_ , Brynden Tully thought.  _Another year. Let all the empires of the world come howling for blood then. We will meet them with steel._


	42. Fall of Myr II

**Magister Ballio**  
  
Magister Ballio would never speak such thoughts, not even to his most trusted slaves, but oft he dreamed of reigning as the no-longer Tattered Prince did. Of taking knives to the city until all the fools in it lay dead, their wealth stripped and gone to more deserving men. Expressing such a sentiment would be the doom of him, for magisters brooked rivals but no superior. Not even when war came knocking at the gates of the city, in the shape of screaming horde of slaves led by a foreign madman. Long before Sere fell the magisters had sent men to the Sunset Kingdoms, to protest the actions of this Dragonhunt as well as seek knowledge of the men who led it. The king in that shithole of a town where Great Valyria’s throwbacks had once settled had ordered the envoys thrown out before his entire court, saying that the Iron Throne took no commands from foreigners and no gifts from slavers. Civilization, it was agreed, ended on the eastern coast of the Narrow Sea.  
  
In private, of course, meetings were had. Orton Merryweather had not forgot his stay in Myr, and taken wife there. It was made understood that this Lord Robert was no tool of the Sunset Kingdoms, and would find no help from its king. The brothers, it was said, were less than fond of each other. The magisters who had gone had found suspicions already common in Myr confirmed by this. The Captain of the South was naught but a brutish madman, and had been forced to abdicate his crown by great lords who had tired of mad rulers. This excuse of pursuing the last Targaryen had only been a measure to save face and gather some warriors to his banner before going into exile. There had been talk of making truce with the Baratheon then, of allowing him his ‘Sunset Town’ to rule and some of the southern reaches of Pentos as well of he turned on his paymaster. The magisters of Myr and the Archon did not seek to depose Prince Mylerio, merely to weaken Pentos and wrest it from Braavosi influence.  
  
Then Sere had fell. Then the armies sent to take it back had been ground to dust in the Cage of Rats. The disaster had sounded across all the holdings of Myr, and ruined magisters that had once been the greatest of their kind. Tobromos and the filthy traitors that held it looked to the Tyroshi for protection, Laren closed its gates and Myr stood alone. Then the filthy Lyseni whoremongers had slipped in the dagger. It had been thought that Lys was awaiting reversals in the war so it could be brought in to help for a greater slice of the spoils, but the whoremasters had been more ruthlessly ambitious than anyone had believed they could be. Myr had lost its fleet, and though holdouts among the magisters believed this war could still be won others had called to begin treating with Pentos and Braavos. The Dragonhunt was still in the pay of Prince Mylerio, and so were the Long Lances. The leash was a thin one, but a leash still.  
  
In Pentos, they found warm reception. The prince asked for sworn friendship and reparations, but not unreasonable ones. This was pleasing, but Mylerio answered to the Sealord and when the magisters went to treat with Braavos they found trouble. The Secret City was at war with itself. The Sealord’s plot with Lys had been laid bare and found purchase with many, but others were calling for war with the slaving daughters of Valyria. Two attempts on the Sealord’s life had been made when he spoke of reluctance. The Iron Bank stood aloof and the streets were filled with sharply smiling bravos binding their swords with ribbons grey or gold. Grey for the stone arch on which was writ the First Law of Braavos. _No man, woman or child will ever be slave, thrall or bondsman._  Gold for the colour of peace and trade, the ships that saw Braavos fed and prosperous. As the magisters of the Secret City bickered in their manses, bravos killed for either cause for the pleasure of the people. The keyholders of the Iron Bank were approached, but when the matter of the loan made to the Dragonhunt being recalled was brought up the meeting was brought to an end. The refusal was clear. Myr would find no purchase north.  
  
Ballio had called it madness, when the envoys sent to the host beneath their walls went with the chest of severed heads. Riches were sent as well, but all Myr saw returned to it was screaming men bound to a stone that flew over the walls, clipping a winesink’s roof before crushing the envoys to pulp as it rolled down the street. Two heads a day had been thrown over the walls every morning since, the promise made upheld. A waste that only pride kept pushing forward. The children might be orphans, but there would be need of these after the war. With so many slaves dead or fled, Slaver’s Bay would rob them blind in the trade. Better to raise a fresh crop and ensure they would know their place.  
  
“Victory is at hand,” Magister Helior thundered. “The fools will assault the walls and be broken for the whole world to see.”  
  
The fat man had sent his own goodbrother to his death treating with the savages but his loud grief had not stayed his hand from seizing the younger man’s riches. Some cheers followed the posturing, but not so many as there would have been when the siege began. The lingering months had turned sneering certainty to something a great deal more fearful. Though not victorious, neither was the Dragonhunt defeated. Ballio knew most of his fellows believed it would be hunger that drove the invader away, but this was no victory to boast of. A failed attack on the walls would allow for the salvaging of pride in the face of other cities.  
  
“Fools?” Magister Ballion said. “I see the greatest threat to our city since the Century of Blood. Thinking little of these men is how they came to stand before our walls.”  
  
“And against them they will shatter, you craven rat,” Helior barked. “They will flee back to Sere as we bring our rebels to heels and be purged to the last.”  
  
The clamour rose as the yells of both their allies killed the debate in favour of threats and insults.  
  
\--  
  
 **Jaime Lannister**  
  
“It is done?” Ser Jaime asked.  
  
His nuncle nodded. They mulled over their cups in the tavern, backs against the wall. It was a rathole that stunk of spew and piss, but neither had dared seek a better roof over their heads. The city guard of Myr still patrolled the streets, and though they worried more of slaves than foreigners near the docks they kept eye out for Westerosi. It had been his uncle’s crew of Essosi sailors that done most the work. It had been a Tyroshi who’d paid some of the conscripts to drop a burning cloth bag over the walls, where the Blackfish’s outriders would see it.  
  
“Tomorrow, come nightfall,” Gerion whispered.  
  
The Dragonhunt was to begin its assault on the bastion late after noon and keep the Myrmen looking there until night fell. Their little band was then to break out as many slaves as they could without bringing the whole city down on their heads, prying the gates open by force to let in the Unshackled. It would be chancey work, Jaime knew, yet he delighted in it. All his life men had told him he had greatness in him. He’d been knighted a boy, the youngest to ever wear the white cloak. And then he had kept vigil as a monster raped his queen, watched silently as the Mad King’s whims saw men burn and scream. The white cloak had done more to soil him than he it. He knew now that in the Seven Kingdoms all that would have awaited him was the whispers of Kingslayer behind his back. Cersei had told him it could be different, that she could convince her husband to keep him at her side, but it had been a craven relief to leave King’s Landing before she was wed.  
  
He did not know if he could have held himself silent through the bedding, refrained from cutting the king’s grinding head from his neck and made it known to all that his sister was his, damn what all the gods had to say of it. She’d raged, even as she took him to bed in the dark. Said that she would bear no children but his, their own perfect son to rule the realm. Jaime thought little of that. What was a child to him but another squirt in Cersei’s cunt? There never had been room for another between them. He could have stewed in the thought of her being a world away, wed to a man that was little but a prune of a septa with a cock, but the thought of the morrow loomed closer. Father had tried to make him a lord, once. Insisted on lessons, letters and so many things he did not have the mind or inclination to learn. Jaime had come to Essos and found what he had been born to do.  
  
War. To sound the horn and shatter hosts, to bring red ruin to all that would stand against him. Years he had stood a guard to a madman, and felt the boy who’d dreamed of being Arthur Dayne die a hundred small deaths. Here he lived again, and almost dreaded the thought of returning to the Rock and its golden chains. The scorn he had suffered in King’s Landing had never crossed the sea, and he missed it not. How many months had it been, since he had last heard himself called Kingslayer? Even Eddard had thawed, turning his ice unto others. Freeing the downtrodden was, he supposed, worthy enough a cause. The kind great men took upon their shoulders, men that would be remembered long after their deaths. Rhaegar would still die, of course, but it may be years before the King That Ran fell into their hands. Time enough to bring honour to his name the only way he had ever enjoyed.  
  
Jaime Lannister would carve a legend in these lands, and the word Kingslayer would not be in it.


	43. Fall of Myr III

**Dacey Mormont**  
  
It was not love, Dacey thought, not the way southron maidens sung of it. There was little tender about how she looked to Ned, though he had been more than willing to sate her apetites. She was thankful to the woman who’d taught him bedplay, in truth, though she misliked this talk of the Black Pearl of Braavos sighing as she awaited his return. She did not speak of it regardless. It would have been graceless of her to begrudge a woman who’d helped along what was now one of her great delights. Would that she had been more forward in Sere. She could have begun this before they ever left the city if she’d not taken reluctance for disinterest. He still hesitated at times, to her amusement, but now that she had taken to wearing looser clothes when they were alone in his tents she was weaning him of that.  
  
There would be battle, today. That had stirred other urges, as it often did with her. She gasped and clawed at Ned’s shoulders as he bucked into her, back arching as his fingers dug pleasingly into the curve of her arse. She’d reached her peak earlier, when she’d been bent over the table, but the feel of him in her was pleasure still. He let out a hiss and spent himself, the two of them falling upon the table as they panted. He kissed her sweetly after, and leaned his head against her shoulder. They remained there for a long moment, until his weight became uncomfortable and she laughingly told him to rise. Dacey buttoned her shirt, enjoying the way grey eyes followed her fingers and lingered on her breasts. Harla was still standing guard outside, and had likely heard all of it. No doubt a knowing smile would await her when she left.  
  
Ned took a cloth to his body, a habit he said he had learned in Braavos. He washed often, for a man, though it was said that Starks made much use of the warm springs of Winterfell. Her lover, her captain, hesitated before speaking.  
  
“Dacey,” he said. “During the battle.”  
  
“I will be at your side,” she firmly replied. “Speaking otherwise, Ned, would be the first time you shamed me in truth.”  
  
“I would not lose you,” he quietly said.  
  
It still gave her a pleased shiver to hear him speak the words. Not a maiden’s love, this, but something better fit for a Mormont. Dacey was not her mother, who had never once worn a dress where mail would be allowed, yet she knew the ways of her house. She had been fathered by a bear in the woods, as all her sisters had been. The vows of a wife need not be spoken of they were truly meant. Yet she would not brook resistance in this. Before she had ever taken Eddard Stark to bed, she had taken up her mace. She would not trade one for the other, no matter how sweet his embrace.  
  
“Nor I you,” she bluntly said. “But I will fight nonetheless. See to your own shield, Ned, for I would grieve you sorely.”  
  
More than he knew, or she cared to say. Mother had told her after the rebellion that in her eyes there should be only one Stark ruling Winterfell, and it was not the cripple. Dacey had not quibbled, for it was true the North could not be ruled from a sick bed, but the steel in her mother’s eyes she had not understood until Essos. Until Ned shattered two hosts in a few months, until she saw the magisters dragged to the tree and the Unshackled watching with fragile hope in their gaze. House Mormont has sworn to the Kings of Winter and none other, in those days where the North had known more than one crown. Of Rickard Stark’s children, the one who carried that blood most was the second son. Arnolf Karstark had laughed once, in his cups, and called it a jape of the old gods that it was the son Rickard sent south to foster that had the most of the North in him. She had not found it in her to disagree.  
  
“Victory cannot be had in all things,” Ned sighed, sounding rueful.  
  
“A great captain indeed,” Dacey grinned, slipping on her trousers.  
  
She would need to wash before they went into battle, and take the moon tea, but for now she enjoyed the warmth of him still with her. She kissed him again before taking her leave, for he still had other duties to see to. Harla, a girl from Meereen of age with her, gave her a naughty grin when she passed and made a mummery of a deep gasp.  
  
“I’ve seen you make eyes at that serjeant from the Unshackled,” the Mormont warned.  
  
That got the flustered silence she’d sought. There were hours ‘till she would return to the tent, for Dacey had neatly forced aside the Cerwyn armsman who’d once helped Ned put on his plate, and the northerner sought her mother. Maege Mormont was smashing some poor Lyseni girl’s shield with little effort when she found her, telling her if she did not watch her guard she would ring her head like a bloody bell. One of the new recruits, that. The girl had soft hands, and the face of bedslave. Yet there were fury writ in her eyes when she spoke of magisters and their attentions that had made her worth the shield. The hands would crack, the skin tan and the slender frame grow thicker. But she would be as keen an edge as any of her sisters, when she first saw battle. Mother gave the Lyseni leave to slake her thirst when she saw Dacey, and gave her daughter a ribald look.  
  
“Will he be too exhausted to raise a sword?” her mother asked.  
  
“He never has been,” Dacey slyly replied.  
  
That surprised laughter out of the elder Mormont, and a few pointed barbs about the passions of youth. The order of battle had been passed down by the Blackfish, after the Council of Four held session at dawn. The first crack at the bastion would go to the vanguard of the Unshackled, but King Robert’s men had claimed the right to the second should the freedmen fail. The Stormlanders had strutted all over camp speaking of it since they’d heard, boasting the city would fall before the rest of the Dragonhunt so much as saw the Myrmen. The northerners and the valemen with them would lead the third wave, Ned at their head. She found him later, once she’d donned her mail, and his face had turned to that strange calm that saw him unreadable even to her.  
  
“Did you know of this?” he asked, gesturing at his armour.  
  
The plate was the same he had brought across the sea, but after being sent to the blacksmiths it had returned differently forged. The pauldrons were now inlaid with the rampant direwolf of House Stark, the beast holding a broken shackle in its mouth. The breastplate, once plain, now bore a tall heart tree with ropes and three men hanging from the branches. The work was eerily beautiful, the freedman who’d done it having spent the better part of a sennight on the details.  
  
“I did,” Dacey said. “Though it was not my notion.”  
  
A jest of King Robert’s, that Ned should take the shackle trees for his emblem since he’d birthed so many of them. Lord Karstark had been taken with the notion, and her mother as well. House Stark needed not bear the same colours, this far from Winterfell, and none of those that had remained after Pentos thought much of serving the man who now claimed the old heraldry of the Kings of Winter.  
  
“I did not ask for it,” Ned said.  
  
“And yet, here it is,” she softly replied. “Lord of Gallows, Eddard. Let them fear the sight of it.”  
  
He was not pleased, she saw, but did not argue. In a way helping him into the plate was as intimate a thing as when they fucked, and Dacey enjoyed the feeling of it. It was Ned the man she lay with, but it was Lord Eddard Stark she followed. Barded in steel they strode onto the field, and joined the muster on the plains. The king already stood among his Stormlanders, laughter and war made flesh, as the ladders were brought to the fore. Horns sounded, and the host moved.  
  
\--  
  
 **Richard Horpe**  
  
Richard had once hoped to be Kingsguard, one of the greatest knights in the realm. Most boys of fourteen likely did, if they had any talent with the sword, and he had plenty of that. He wore no white cloak now, yet he squired to a man who had once been king. And might yet be again, if the city fell. There was the scent of crowning hanging in the air, this evening. Also blood and shit, for the Unshackled were dying like flies. The Myrmen were desperate to prevent foothold being gained, and the sky darkened with arrows. The Blackfish’s archers and his freedmen with crossbows gave answer, but the wall were tall and crenelated. For every slaver that died, ten of the freedmen fell screaming. Yet they marched on, and the Horpe’s lips set in a thin line. They were brave men, one and all. Richard had heard much of the courage of knights, but he’d fought at the Battle of Stones. He’d seen the chivalry of the Crownlands turn tail and flee before sellwords. They would have broken to day as well, he thought.  
  
The ladders were tall, built for the assault, and of the ten brought forward only one touched the bastion. Two fell as scorpions atop the walls tore through the men bearing them, three more broken by logs and stones dropped from the bastion onto their length. All the others save the last were caught by hooked poles and thrown back. The Riverlands archers shot the men holding one of the poles and it clattered down the wall, but more were brought. Freedmen began to climb the single ladder, the first rising a mere three rungs before taking a bolt through the eye. For a moment the man behind him looked as if he’d make the climb, halfway up and ducking under a rock that would have crushed his head, but then the Myrmen brought out rakes of steel and wedged them between the ladder and the bastion, pushing it down onto the host. The Unshackled fell screaming, and did not rise.  
  
“Storms are always grim work,” King Robert Baratheon said, clapping his shoulder.  
  
“Your Grace, I am not afraid,” the squire protested.  
  
“Fear’s an old friend, Richard,” the dark-haired man laughed. “Keep it close. Learn when to listen to it. There are times it whispers true.”  
  
Blue eyes turned to the Unshackled, desperately trying to force a ladder back onto the bastion.  
  
“But there are also times fear is the first enemy you kill,” he said. “My horn, Richard.”  
  
The boy, to his shame, almost thought he meant the wine. He clawed at the leather strap at his side, handing the sounding horn to his king. Once, twice, the deep call resounded. It was not a grim thing, like the ones the northmen used. It was a hunter’s horn, and more than war it remembered Richard the depths of the rainwood after a storm. When water still dripped from the leaves and the men rode horses through the paths wreathed in green light, in pursuit of stags and boars.  
  
“STORMLANDERS,” the king bellowed. “FORWARD.”  
  
Thousands of boots pounded the ground and the foot advanced. The ladders they carried were not as those of the Unshackled. There were iron hooks at the end, meant to dig into the stone atop the bastion and resist attempts to push them back. The flagging vanguard of freedmen was swelled by Stormlanders. Bolts fell around them, whistling like hornets, and Richard brought up his shield to cover the king’s side. Others clustered around the towering Baratheon, and the squire did not see that ladders had touched the summit until he was at the very feet of them. To his horror the king began to climb, even as another ladder fell mere feet away. There were men above, and a shaking Richard had to press his body to the left when a man with an arrow through the throat tumbled down. They rose, gods save them all, they rose, and when he saw Robert Baratheon set foot atop the bastion the boy felt something like the faith septons spoke of.  
  
Myrmen came, but the king was laughing. The war hammer swept them aside like dead leaves and Richard would have gaped if the man climbing behind him had not jostled his leg. He leapt forward, scrabbling behind the king as Unshackled and Stormlanders poured onto the bastion. Sword in hand he swung blindly at a dark-skinned man in half-mail, blade getting stuck in the man’s throat no matter how hard he tried to force it out. The king kicked the dead man down and struck another Myrmen, hammer shattering a spear and the helmeted head behind it like a grapefruit. For that glorious moment they were invincible and a ring of steel spread to protect the ladders. Then the man to the king’s left fell with a scream, a dozen crossbow bolts in his side. Soldiers on the walls, Richard saw and his blood ran cold. Hundreds of crossbowmen. He screamed a warning and threw himself in the way but the arrow skittered past him, taking the king in the shoulder.  
  
The giant coiled back, tearing out the shaft. Another of his guards died, and a bolt took him in the side. The king lost his footing and the Myrmen pressed forward with a roar. A tall man with a spear broke through the shield wall, swinging a sword at the Baratheon and scoring blood across the face. More broke through.  
  
“The king,” the squire yelled. “Protect the king.”  
  
His sword felt light in his hand as the Myrmen came, the lessons of the training yard so very far away. Fear whispered, and Richard Horpe killed it. He swung, arm moving without thought, and a Myrman’s throat opened. He moved again and again, one man against five and they might as well have been made of straw. In time he would come to be called Richard the Slayer, one of the few sword arms said to rival Jaime Lannister's. But that day he was just a boy, a boy who fought with the Warrior’s blessing. He fought until the king was dragged back to the ladders, and when the horn of retreat sounded at nightfall he was drenched in blood.


	44. Fall of Myr IV

**Gerion Lannister**  
  
It was a struggle to wait for nightfall. The sounds of the battle for the bastion could be heard from even the outskirts of the city, and rumours coursed through the streets with every passing hour. Jaime was even more restless than he, his nephew keeping his hand on that golden sword of his as if ready to bare steel with every breath. What they heard was worrying. The Dragonhunt had landed on the bastion, men said, but found it a quicksand for their host. The men there died by the score, to crossbows and spearmen. There was even talk a conscript had killed Robert Baratheon with a crossbow, though no less than twenty men claimed to have felled the Captain of the South. For the rumours to be so insistent, there must be some truth to it. Robert, the Lannister thought, had been too reckless. Quite a thing to say for a man who’d promised he would open the gates of a city from the inside with only eleven others at his side, but he’d yet to sprout arrows for his own foolishness.  
  
The carafe of wine the lions were nursing was still half-full when the sun began to fall. They would wait no longer, Gerion thought. There was still fighting on the walls, men dying for his patience. Tywin, he knew, would have waited until it was fully dark. Yet he was not his brother, and would not worship at the altar of heartless reason as the other man did. The Lannisters took to the streets and found his men waiting for them there. They had chosen where they would strike two days before, and waited to know the lay of the patrols and the force that dwelled where they meant to act. A smithy, or rather several of them kept in the same large dwelling. A single magister owned all of it, and there had chains and shackles forged by the very slaves they were meant for. He had been cautioned by some of his crew that some slaves might not want liberation, and if prized might lead richer lives than free men of Myr, but this Magister Herion starved and beat his smiths frequently.  
  
All his kind would pay for the cruelty.  
  
They took to the smaller streets, avoiding where the guards would pass, and hurried to the wall at the back of the dwelling. Jaime threw the hook and secured it on his first attempt, and began the climb before Gerion could order another man to lead. The Lannister cursed under his breath. All it would take was one man with a crossbow and there went the heir to the Rock. Fool, for glory and scraping away the taint of a name that should have been praise instead of insult. He followed and dropped onto the courtyard, in time to see his nephew silently unsheathed his blade and hack through the neck of a sleeping guard. The Seven were with them. They hid in the shadows until the others had joined them, tugging back the hook. Together they struck the smithies, and it it was a close thing. Had Gerion not procured a crossbow from a drunken conscript, the man near the door might have fled to raise alarm and it would have been the end of them all.  
  
The slaves were eager to turn on their masters. There were near sixty of them, kept under heel by a mere nine guards. Even with the Dragonhunt at the gate, this was arrogance beyond understanding. The magisters had kept these men in chains for so long they could not understand how outnumbered they were, how the moment blood was spilled their rule crumbled around them. There were not enough blades for all, but enough that it mattered. Telling the freedmen that they meant to open the gates and win the siege lit a fire in them, perhaps too much. The Seven would only bless them once, it seemed, for they came upon a group of soldiers sent away from the front and the fight was bloody. The slaver soldiers were mostly wounded, but they wore armour and weapons. A dozen of the former slaves died to it, and the ruckus drew attention. Gerion threw caution to the wind, then, and led them directly to the gate through the quickest path. There were hundreds of men in the fortifications above it, but only ten below.  
  
They died quick to desperate blows, but the host above poured down the stairs and Gerion Lannister danced the edge of the blade. There were two thick bars of steel to take down before the chains opening the gate could be pulled and no time to any of it. Jaime, bless his soul, killed three men like he was taking a stroll and stood square across the steps of the western side daring any to try him. Another five died before terror struck and his nephew was only forced away when crossbows were trained on him. Gerion kept the eastern stairs closed but not night as well and the enemy began to spill through as spears forced him back and half his crew to red steel. The freedmen in the back dropped the second bar on the ground and made for the chains on both sides, but a bolt went straight through one’s leg. Cursing loudly Gerion ran for the chain and pulled at the wooden contraption hoisting it, hearing what few men remained dying behind him. The gates cracked open, an inch at a time, and though all but a few of the slaves were dead he could hear the clamour of hooves coming from the plains.  
  
The Lannister had to drop the wheel to fend off a spear that would have taken him through the back, but it had been enough. Through the narrow gap the first of the Long Lances galloped through, and the fall of Myr began.  
  
\--  
  
Extract from Archmaester Robert’s work, “The Sellsword King”:  
  
 _“Though it has been argued by some superbly ignorant men that the War of Chains begun with the landing of the Dragonhunt on Essosi shores and ended when the current borders of the Kingdom of Summer were established, this a view that is both revisionist and inaccurate. It is also disputed in every center of learning in the know world save the Citadel, where begging for royal favour seems to have replaced even the most cursory attempts to portray the events that truly unfolded. Of this subject I will write no more, for a great deal of ink has already been spilled on the subject._  
  
The War of Chains can more aptly be considered over half a dozen separate and varyingly consecutive wars, beginning with the First Pentoshi War. The least of the wars that would follow, it saw Prince Mylerio take the throne of Pentos and the remaining Targaryen loyalists forced to flee to Volantis, where their later fate would birth a hundred plays the vast majority of which are atrociously written. It behooves me to remind any reader that we have written records of the matter, and that any attempts to portray Viserys Targaryen as anything but a gifted young man attempting to salvage the last of his house from his famously unhinged siblings are maliciously untrue.  
  
The Myrish War, begun when the Dragonhunt was in the pay of Pentos as sellswords, ended when Lord Admiral Gerion Lannister’s ruse saw the gates opened to the host. For the first several months of the siege attempts to breach the walls were fruitless, and on the very day of the fall of Myr a bloody assault on a breached bastion resulted in no less than five thousand dead on the side of the invaders, and the wounding of King Robert Baratheon himself. Given that the Dragonhunt had previously displayed great restraint in investing cities, it has been said that the brutality of the sack that followed was brought on by wroth as such heavy losses.  
  
I have had the privilege to meet with several officers of the Dragonhunt that served even in these days, and found that many blame the Long Lances for that black mark as they were the first in the city. Whatever the truth of it, order was not returned until two days later when Prince Eddard Stark officially took command in the name of the unconscious king. The words famously attributed to the Silent Prince, ‘I will have order, or they the rope’, first appeared a decade later in a Braavosi play and it is dubious they were ever truly spoken. They do, however, represent the hard line that had to be taken before the worst of the ravaging of the city could end.  
  
Though the manner of it was bloody, the fall of Myr heralds the true birth of the Baratheon dynasty across the Narrow Sea. It marks the transition of the Dragonhunt from a host of adventurers to fledgling kingdom that would grow into the Kingdom of Summer that now stands.”


	45. Chapter 37

Myr was eating itself alive.  
  
It’d been two days since the gates had been opened, yet Ned saw only madness as far as the eye could see. Already more had died to the sack than to the battle, and the curse of blood had taken each and every one of them. The Long Lances had first lit the flame, he’d been told, turning to looting after they’d run into a well-manned barricade. The remainder of the host had followed piecemeal, soldiers unwilling to let their fellows hoard all the ill-gained wealth. The remains of the Myrish host had broken as soon as the city was breached, turning their blades on their own for fear or greed. The slaves had broken loose and made no difference between the Dragonhunt and the magisters, packs of lean hungry silhouettes wielding knives and clubs roaming the streets and clashing against all others. Carrion beasts were loose, feasting on the host of corpses that sprawled across Myr.  _This is no city_ , Eddard thought.  _It is horror bound by walls._  
  
He held command now. The few officers of the Dragonhunt not having joined the slaughter had elected him to it, ‘til Robert woke. And now he must take shield the city from itself, before it became naught but a fly-plagued crypt rotting in the sun. He would not stand for this. Gods forgive him, but he would put an end to it even if he had to hang every last one of them.  
  
“In the name of King Robert Baratheon, you are called upon to put down your weapons and cease slaughter,” Lord Arnolf called out. “Curfew has been decreed over Myr.”  
  
“Fuck sunset whores,” a man replied in broken Valyrian.  
  
There were a dozen looters barricaded in the house, and they’d heard laughter followed by the screams of women. Ned was shamed by the truth that he had grown numb to it, after the ninth time. When he’d begun this grim work, he had given orders to call the warning twice. His men no longer did, and he had not censured them for it.  
  
“Break the door,” Lord Karstark barked out.  
  
Two Stormlanders in plate took the bronze-capped pillar to the wood and it splintered after two strokes. Unshackled, those that had remained true and answered Ned’s call for muster, spilled inside with Westerosi among them. Half the looters died within moments, the rest surrendering with yells to be dragged out into the street. The women, three young girls with ripped clothes and bruises, were ushered out by Eddard’s own shieldmaidens. They would be told to take refuge in the broad plaza to the east, where Ned had left a few companies to guard the massing smallfolk. Hand on the reins, the Stark guided his charge to the glowering and terrorized looters that had been forced to kneel.  
  
“We have run out of rope, sers,” Eddard Stark coldly told them. “Steel will suffice.”  
  
Blades rose, blades fell and red splattered the cobblestones. The corpses were piled by the side of the house and Ned’s soldiers began marching again. He would force peace unto this abomination, block by block if needs must.  
  
\--  
  
This had been a stall once, before men had ripped the cloth banner and upset the now-empty cart. Dacey had put it to right and now two shieldmaidens held down the half-ripped parchment where a prisoner had scrawled the lay of Myr with charcoal. Ned stood looming over it, runners swarming to and fro the market that had been reclaimed by force of arms.  
  
“Ser Brynden has taken the port, my lord,” Ser Desmond Grell told him, after having knelt.  
  
The Riverlander was years older than him, Eddard thought, yet looked at him the way Ned and Robert had once looked at Jon Arryn.  
  
“How many ships remained?” the Stark asked.  
  
The doom of the magisters had come from the sea but so had their salvation. The Dragonhunt had no fleet to pursue them over the waves, and they knew this well. Like rats fleeing a sinking ships they had abandoned the city as soon as the gate was lost, taking wealth and slaves and their families. Those that had ships, at least. Or whose captains had not already fled with the traders. The magisters had earned little loyalty, and many had reached the docks only to find their ships long gone. The slavers had brought their men with them and those that could not escape had instead grown desperate, barricading the port and fighting to the last. The Blackfish had been sent to break them, half of Ned’s strength with him.  
  
“Ten, and a handful of fishing boats,” Ser Desmond said. “Those in need of repair. The seaworthy all fled ahead of us.”  
  
No fleet for the Dragonhunt would be forged from this, Ned thought, but this was a matter for another day.  
  
“Leave enough men to hold the port,” Eddard said. “Have Ser Brynden pull the rest and surround the west.”  
  
The Riverlander bowed before leaving. The Dragonhunt now held the port and the east of Myr. Ser Jaime had been sent with Unshackled and westermen to claw back territory in the centre, and as of the last runner was making swift headway. Nightfall would soon come, however, and fighting would grow difficult. Ned’s face grew grim, for how many more would die if he ended his advance when darkness came? He no longer hoped that passing hours would bleed the madness from of the city. There was something old and ugly in the hearts of men, hunger never sated no matter how full the belly.  _We came to break these chains._  he thought.  _And we did. But we have broken the people with them._ Myr had become a gaping pit, and all he had to fill the hole was the corpses of the men who’d dug it. It was the west that was the worst. The Long Lances still held it, and what they unleashed was match for the Court of Knives in brutality and twice as senseless. They could not be left to it any longer.  
  
“Ser Lyn,” he said.  
  
The valeman had been standing to the side, waiting. He’d been one of the first to join them after Ned began the work, but not been there since the beginning. The dark-haired man was sure he had looted, and that the men he said were absent for cause of wound were truly guarding the trove. He would call the man to account for this, in time, but could not now afford to fight him over it. Men, they lacked men, and Lyn Corbray had brought heavy foot and knights.  
  
“Lord Eddard,” he replied, and the Stark bade him closer.  
  
“You are certain Captain Rhegan is dead?” Ned asked.  
  
The man nodded soberly.  
  
“I did not see the body,” he said. “But ten different men now call themselves captain and squabble over spoils and title both. They would not have grown so unruly if he still lived.”  
  
“I will grant you two hundred men to strengthen your own,” Eddard said, and put finger to the map. “Take them here. Give last warning to the Long Lances to cease their madness and present themselves for muster.”  
  
The valeman looked at him askance. Twice Ned had already sent envoy, which were treated well enough but refused. Every would-be captain competed over the allegiance of the men by offering stolen riches and women, and none would give in the face of their rivals.  
  
“And should they refuse?” Ser Lyn said.  
  
Eddard turned to Dacey and nodded. Shieldmaidens stirred behind her, bringing crates and urns.  
  
“Then you are to tear down houses along this line,” Ned told the valeman, finger sliding along the parchment.  
  
Dacey forced open a crate and took out a torch, striding calmly to pass the handle of it to Corbray. The man paled.  
  
“When you have done this,” Ned said. “Burn them out. Ser Bryden will hold the grounds north of them and let through the smallfolk as they flee.”  
  
“And the rest?” Ser Lyn croaked.  
  
Eddard Stark met the valeman’s eyes, face still as a pond.  
  
“What of them?”


	46. Chapter 38

“Seven Hells, boy,” the Blackfish hissed. “If you hang every looter and raper in this army we’ll no longer have one.”  
  
Ned stood and watched the cold ashes. Two years ago, he thought, he’d been a boy at Harrenhal. Too shy to ask Lady Ashara for a dance, relieved to have Brandon and Robert’s shadows cast over him. Had he been happy, then? He was no longer sure. He must have been. His brother was still whole, then, and his sister alive. Robert had not yet smiled at the corpses of children. He had not yet sowed ruin across seven kingdoms and a foreign shore. How far away it all felt, and not for the length of the sea. He thought of that younger man and saw only a stranger, for certainly the boy would never had ordered nigh a quarter of a city put to the torch. That Eddard Stark, he desperately needed to believe, had been a decent man. He knew better than to hold he still was, looking at charred bones too small to have been a soldier’s.  _I have fought fire with fire_ , he thought.  _And the only victor was the flame._  
  
Had Tywin Lannister once stood over the flooded ruins of Castamere like this? Told himself that the death and women and children had been the price of peace in the west. The butcher’s bill was never paid by the deserving, Ned had learned. How many had died in the flames? Two thousand, at least. Likely more. He’d kept the lives and virtue of tenfold the number by ordering the torches lit.  _And yet, what is this but evil?_  The shame of it burned as cold as his wroth had, the evening past. But peace now reigned in Myr, and Eddard Stark had to wonder if taking blade to all he held for this had not been worthwhile trade.  _I have no keep. No wife, and no children to follow after me._  All he had wrought was ruin, and he wore it a cloak still.  _There is no honour in this_ , he thought. But honour had not taken Myr, and would do naught to keep it. He turned to Ser Brynden, wresting his eyes from the field of ashes.  
  
“Would you let it go unpunished, then?” he said. “Is this butchery to take place when we next take a city as well?”  
  
“Take the ringleaders,” Ser Gerion said. “Hang more and we’ll have rebellion in the ranks.”  
  
The Lannister’s gaze shied from the ashes as he spoke, resting on the prisoners kneeling behind them. There had been eight hundred Long Lances, when the Myr fell. There now remained half that. It was not only the sellswords that knelt. There were Unshackled as well, men who had once stood on the other side of this horror. Men that should have known better. Westerosi as well, but few. They were not of better make, Ned thought, but they had kept to their lords when the slaughter began. The Stark’s fingers clenched into a fist.  
  
“The Long Lances no longer exist,” Eddard said. “The company is disbanded, and the men are now under the command of your nephew. Of those that called themselves captains, how many remain?”  
  
“Two,” the Blackfish said.  
  
“We have rope enough for two, I would think,” Ned coldly said. “Ser Gerion, see to it. As for the rest, they are to be stripped of all wealth and lashed ten times before the people of Myr.”  
  
“That will win us no love,” the Lannister warned.  
  
“Ser Jaime can worry of love,” Eddard said. “I will have justice first.”  
  
Gerion grimaced, but argued no further. The Blackfish sighed and together they watched the blond man stride away.  
  
“Sacks are always bloody,” the graying man said. “More so when men died against the walls.”  
  
“Sere was bloody,” Ned replied. “This was other. What took place we cannot brook.”  
  
“Aye, I’ll not deny that,” Ser Brynden grunted. “But if you wet that executioner’s block too much we lose all of it. If this fucking mess taught us anything, it was that our leash on the Unshackled is loose. Pull it too hard and it’ll break, Stark.”  
  
It was truth. Truth he misliked, but no falser for it. The freedmen had fought under the Dragonhunt’s banner for half a year but hated the magisters and their ilk for years upon years. That hatred had been vented upon the undeserving, and this need be punished, but to deny it in full would shatter all the Dragonhunt had built.  _Yet should it not be broken_ , Ned thought,  _if it is built on the corpses of children?_  
  
“Looters will be stripped of their loot,” Eddard said, and the give felt like blood in his mouth. “Rapers lashed and to offer reparation to the womenfolk.”  
  
It was the harshest crime that stilled his tongue. Murder, the killing of innocents. Trial was owed, he knew. This he had been taught. Yet how many trials could truly be held, if hundreds upon hundreds had bloodied their blade? It would take months, months where they would need these men to be campaigning. Lys and Tyrosh would not be idle, when news reached them. The Tyroshi still fielded a host in the Disputed Lands, and the Lyseni had both a fleet and peaceful holdings. Magisters with so strong a grip would always reach for more. Sere would need stronger garrison, and soon. Tobronos and Laren must be brought to heel before they swore allegiance to another power, lest the claiming fullness of Myr’s territories bring armies to their gates before those gates were even seen to. All this would need men, and those men could not fight if they had nooses around their necks.  
  
“Lord Eddard,” a voice called out.  
  
One he knew well. Dacey’s locks were pressed against her forehead by sweat, the price of having worn a helmet in the sun. This once he did not feel the urge to tuck them aside.  
  
“Lady Mormont,” he replied.  
  
“There is need for you,” she said. “Judgement has been asked.”  
  
Ned’s face grew grim. She would not have sought him out now without good reason. Eddard gave the Blackfish nod and followed his lover. What awaited him was a shieldmaiden, and a kneeling boy with fear in his eyes. The woman’s skin was dark as pitch, and he remembered her name. Jalabha Dho, one of the first Maege had claimed. The boy was no older than sixteen, and his skin just as dark. They had the same nose. A empty crate had been dragged before the boy, its purpose unclear.  
  
“This is my brother, lord,” the shieldmaiden said.  
  
Her bastard Valyrian had grown better, he thought. Ned glanced at Dacey.  
  
“He went with the looters,” she said. “Killed an old man for his coin.”  
  
A story that must have been writ a hundred times, in the press of kneeling men behind them. And worse still.  
  
“A crime is a crime,” Eddard quietly said. “Brother or not.”  
  
“I ask no mercy,” Jalabha said. “We are not masters. Law for all. Say, Ulhab.”  
  
Her hand was not tender when she jolted the boy, who with a worried lip turned to Ned. He did not meet the Stark’s eyes.  
  
“I raised my hand to do master’s work,” he said. “I offer penance, Lord of Gallows.”  
  
His sister pressed a knife into his hand and gripped his shoulder. The boy put his other hand atop the crate and drew deep breath. The knife came down, gnawing into the bone of his little finger. Ulhab screamed but drew back the knife, cutting down again, and the first phalange fell free as blood sprayed. His sister pressed bandage onto the mutilated finger swiftly, and another shieldmaidens helped him rise to his feet. He shook too wildly to do so on his own.  
  
“Penance,” Jalabha Dho said, voice rasping.  
  
There was a question in those dark eyes. Ned looked at the red spilled over the wood, the tip of the finger that still lay there.  
  
“Penance,” he finally agreed.  
  
The shieldmaiden took the fingerbone and bowed. The Stark unsheathed the knife at his side and lay it down on the crate.  
  
Dacey did not need to be told to send for the next murderer.


	47. Chapter 39

It took two more days before Robert was wakeful and in his whole mind. Myr did not lack for learned men, free and freed both, and Ned had sent for any who could ease the wounds of his foster-brother. The lack of maesters had been felt sorely since they had crossed the sea, and though Eddard had advice plenty ‘til now they had lacked men who knew of healing. It was relief to have the dark-haired man drinking and complaining of bed rest, though after the first attempt he did not again try to leave his room. The indignity of the collapse had been good teacher. The fever had passed, and the healers assured the wounds were clean and would leave only thin scars. The blade kiss on Robert’s cheek had come close to the eye, but the gods had smiled on the Baratheon. The stitches pulled at his cheek, his mouth ever quirked in amusement much too quiet to truly belong to a man like Robert Baratheon.  
  
“I left you a fucking mess, Ned,” he said, lying in a sea of pillows.  
  
“It has been seen to,” Eddard replied. “Yet I will not lie, I am glad to relinquish command.”  
  
“I’m damned sorry you had to clean it up for me,” Robert sighed. “You always end up wiping when I shit, don’t you?”  
  
“We all had a hand in this one,” the Stark quietly said. “Carelessness wounded this city, and it had many fathers.”  
  
His foster-brother’s disagreement was writ plain on his face, though he did not voice it. It was an odd thing, Robert Baratheon’s notion of duty. The thousand calls of lesser duties he laughingly ignored, yet when calamity struck he always claimed the king’s share of it. Even when he’d been a boy, when they’d earned the strap or a lecture for mischief Robert had always called for it to be lain foremost at his feet. It made it easy to love him. His foster-brother snorted, never one long for contemplation.  
  
“We took Myr,” he said. “Gods. I knew we would, but it’s done. We hold one of the Free Cities.”  
  
“Keeping it,” Eddard said. “Ruling it. These will be another matter.”  
  
“Aye,” Robert said, turning somber. “I won’t stay, Ned. You know that.”  
  
“You are to be king,” Eddard reminded him.  
  
“I don’t have another crown to toss,” the blue-eyed man grunted. “But I would, mark my bloody words. Crown me if you must. Men like to have a king’s banner behind them. But I will not hide behind these walls hearing out petty squabbles.”  
  
“There must be more to this than war, Robert,” Ned said. “Else what will we ever make but graves? Aye, we have freed them. And we have seen what follows, if we leave them to it.”  
  
“Then build it,” Robert said. “It was - it isn’t in me, to be that man, I don’t think. It was always meant to be the two of us, Ned. Ruling together. Father forgive me but I am glad Stannis sits that bloody chair. I will not rust. Waste away wishing for a good war and bedding Tywin Lannister’s daughter when I’m drunk enough see in her Lyanna. He’ll do well with it. Clean out the rot that the dragonspawn let set in because they were too busy fucking their sisters.”  
  
“I would have remained at your side,” Eddard said. “I thought, before you abdicated, to take a white cloak.”  
  
Robert laughed.  
  
“Would have missed out on the Pearl if you did,” he said. “And that Mormont of yours.”  
  
Ned turned away guiltily.  
  
“There’s talk,” Robert grinned, but then grew solemn again. “The Conqueror had it right, when he made the throne of swords. It would have bled me a prick at a time. If I must rule, I’ll rule like the kings of old. From atop a horse, my hammer in hand. We have no lack of enemies for me to smash.”  
  
“Lys may offer truce,” Ned said. “The Sealord already bargained with them, and Braavos will want trade to flow anew.”  
  
“They’ll be cutting their teeth on Tyrosh for years, if they take it,” the Baratheon said. “It’s the host in the Disputed Lands we need to watch for. If they lose hope of taking back Tyrosh, they will not melt in the sun. They’ll dig roots where they stand.”  
  
“So long as we use no shackles, they will prepare for war,” Eddard said. “It may be years, before we can beat them. Myr needs to be built anew. Tobronos and Laren remain under magister rule.”  
  
“Allies, I know,” Robert grunted. “Tatters won’t be eager to send his Windlbown too far from his seat and Braavos has been as useful as tits on hawk. We need a fleet. They’ll run rings around us ‘til we do, and we can’t come at islands without one.”  
  
“It cannot come from the Seven Kingdoms,” Ned said. “King Stannis will not stand for it.”  
  
“It is long past due we send envoy to Salladhor Saan,” Robert said. “Gerion says he sails with Lys yet has not knelt to it. Sellsails are always hungry for more.”  
  
“Aye,” Eddard grimly replied. “It makes them poor allies.”  
  
“Let him turn on us, after the magisters are buried,” the Baratheon dismissed. “We’ll be ready then. He need not be friend forever.”  
  
The Stark grimaced.  
  
“It sits ill with me to treat in bad faith,” he said.  
  
“Oh, we’ll keep faith,” Robert growled. “And wait to see if he did too. A wager I am willing to take, greed against fear.”  
  
Slowly, Ned nodded.  
  
“The tributaries first,” he said. “If they swear to Lys and we then make truce with it, we grow much weaker.”  
  
“The meddlers say in a month I’ll be fit to ride,” the Baratheon said. “I’ll take half the host and knock at their doors. Laren before the other.”  
  
“Twice now ruses have taken a city,” Eddard said. “They will be ready for one, when you come.”  
  
“Clever is Lannister work,” Robert smiled. “Let the slavers try to gainsay a trebuchet.”  
  
Ned remained until wine and exhaustion had him fall to slumber. There was much labour to be done, if even half the Dragonhunt was to be able to leave within a month. There was a city to turn from ruin to ruled, and so few hours to see it done. In the end, it took Robert two months to be able enough to ride fit for campaigning. Long enough for much to unfold. From the west came word of House Greyjoy in rebellion, snatching victory from the wreck of loyal fleets. Closer still was the undoing of Tyrosh’s strength at sea, caught in the Stepstones between the fleet of Lys and Salladhor Saan’s pirates. The city was not long in falling after, though only after Saan failed to storm the port. It was the magisters of Lys that took the city, and them that would rule it. In the Disputed Lands, war without sense or hope bloomed from a host kept from its home by the sea it had willingly crossed. The first rumours of the war for the Rhoyne reached the shores of Myr, and with them talk of blood and sorcery. The great men of Essos began their game anew, and envoys came calling at the gates of the Dragonhunt. It was Eddard Stark that received them, for the uncrowned king of Myr had gone on the march. Not, as they had once thought, to take Laren.  
  
The Second Sons had lost hold of Sere.


	48. Early Summer I

Extract from Archmaester Armen’s masterwork “Summer Crowns, or, the Last Death of Valyria”:  
  
 _“It is said that the Second Sons had lost hold of Sere before the sack of Myr even begun, though King Robert did not receive word of it until months later. Though a lesser chapter in the sprawling history of the War of Chains, this rebellion would have larger ramifications only later truly understood. Captain Tybero Istarion, then still in the pay of the Prince of Pentos, found his given rule of the city peaceful in the beginning for the Dragonhunt had weaned out the worst of the troublemakers. This was mere surface appearance, for the Silent Prince’s forbearance had already sown the seeds of this later uprising. From the ashes of slaver rule Prince Eddard had raised freedmen to position of importance through the making of guilds, and these ambitious men were no longer content to answer to a sellsword captain of little renown.  
  
Though many details have been lost to the blind veil of time, it is known that the eldermen of guild of blacksmiths and the guild of weavers were the foremost ringleaders. Assembling men of the city and arming them even as they bought officers of the guard, the eldermen seized power in the city from the largely outnumbered Second Sons. Captain Istarion prudently retreated to a stronghold and barred it, turning back a single ramshackle assault. In the wake of that failure, bickering set apart the ringleaders. Some wished to declare Sere a free city beholden to none but they remained outnumbered by those who would still pay allegiance to the Dragonhunt, though as rulers in their own right. Even as the quarrels turned bloody, an officer of the Second Sons by the name of Kasporio sent message to the Prince of Pentos without the knowledge of Captain Tyberio.  
  
Prince Mylerio, knowing his Myrish and Tyroshi foes could not strike at him, swiftly marches his Windblown south. They first seized the Sunset Town founded earlier that year and left bare of defences and hurried to Sere in the hopes of seizing the city before the Dragonhunt could object. He had, as the Seven would have it, underestimated the speed of the Unshackled. King Robert Baratheon, fresh recovered from the wounds he took on the walls of Myr, stole a march on him. When the Windblown came in sight of the walls of Sere, they beheld the assembled ranks of near five thousand Unshackled flanked by horse of the Young Lion. Though sadly no maester attended upon the conference between prince and king, it is understood that Prince Mylerio claimed he had marched only to reinforce his ally.  
  
Though it is doubtful a man as wise as King Robert took him to his word, war on Pentos would have been plague on the Dragonhunt. It had yet to firmly take hold of Myr itself, and most lesser holdings were still in slaver hands. The result of the parley was the ending of the contract between Pentos and the Dragonhunt and the king’s surrender of the title of Captain of the South, followed by the celebration before two hosts of alliance struck between the Prince of Pentos and the King of Myr. Inside Sere, matters were fittingly less festive. The city guard turned on the very men that suborned it, opening the gates to the Dragonhunt and the bloody purge that ensued. The eldermen of most guilds were hung, officers of the guard demoted back to the ranks and Captain Istarion ordered his ambitious second Kasporio drowned in a barrel of refuse.  
  
The Second Sons were not overly chastised for their failure, and were recalled to Myr to serve under the Silent Prince. In the aftermath of the purge, Ser Andrey Charlton of the Riverlands was raised from knighthood to rule as the first lord of House Charlton of Sere, wedding the daughter of a prominent elderman of the blacksmith guild within the month. He was granted two thousand Unshackled as garrison and charged with holding the northern march in the name of King Robert Baratheon.  
  
The farce at Sere is most notable not for the farce itself but what came of it. The alliance between Pentos and the fledgling Kingdom of Summer, though it was not yet called this, secured the northern border and provided a much-needed intermediary in dealing with the eastern rulers that despised the men of Westeros. Quieter, but no less potent for it ,was the end of guild power under the rule of the Dragonhunt. Strict decrees limited their authority and made them directly answerable to highborn, as they should have been since inception. Prince Eddard never again made the mistake of allowing tradesmen such influence in affairs best left to their betters.”_  
  
\--  
  
 **Addam Marbrand**  
  
“Bloody fucking fools,” Strongboar said, spitting to the side.  
  
Addam did not disagree, for he was looking upon sheer folly. The swift resolution at Sere had freed the host to march south to Laren, where he’d believed awaited them a siege as long as Myr’s. It may not be so, they had learned. The magisters had been overthrown by the slaves long before they arrived. After the army within the walls had put down a violent uprising, the officers had caught wind of another in the making and chosen to treat with the plotters rather than die to keep the magisters in their seats. The old magister that held command of the host was murdered in his bed, his bootlickers put to the sword and a man called Potgar acclaimed commander by his fellows. He’d then free the slaves and the city’s own garrison had sacked it before proclaiming Potgar the first King of Laren. The man had not ruled for long. He was knifed quarreling with another officer over a magister’s daughter and half a dozen men claimed his crown before the corpse was cold.  
  
Kingkiller Arek held the city for a day before three officers drowned him in his bath, proclaiming themselves a triarchy of kings and dividing the city in three. Of these fools only one survived the month, though their pretension of triarchy was kept. A smith roused the free men of Laren and claimed a crown over one’s corpse while the freedmen ran wild through the streets shouting the name of Queen Lydiria. She had been, Addam was told, a magister’s favoured whore before the uprising. A Lyseni beauty of some reputation, she had silver hair and claimed descent from the ancient King of Valyria. That Valyria had been a Freehold and crownless did nothing to abate the fervor of the freedmen behind Queen Harlot, who was said to bestow her favours upon those who served her most ardently. The heir to Ashemark knew all this for envoys had been sent to King Robert’s host, and their men had said much after ale was made to flow.  
  
It had been a source of great merriment to the camp that all three crowned heads of the triarchy had sent their own envoys separate of the others. When the Soldier King and the Smith King’s men had come across each other there had been loud accusations of treachery and a vicious brawl that saw Addam lose a few silvers to Eustace Hunter. He’d put his coin on a soldier only for a smith’s apprentice to break the man’s neck with bulging muscles. The westerman had not sat the tent when terms were offered by the triarchs, though Ser Jaime had spoken of them after. All three had offered the city if their rivals were slaughtered with they left to rule it, and promised bitter resistance if opposed in this. The Harlot Queen had offered Robert her hand in marriage as well, and sent young girls to speak of her great beauty. The king had replied she must be the costliest whore in the world, if her cunt was worth a city.  
  
There had been no pact. The Dragonhunt would not suffer one of these fools to rule over a tributary to Myr, and King Robert had ordered the trebuchets to be brought to bear. Slaves had already begun to flee the city, and some brought to the camp had spoken of the shortages that already plagued the city. From food to such trifles as nails, Laren was scrabbling to find any at all. The many kings of the city had feasted the people to buy their love, and long emptied the granaries the magisters had prepared for a siege. Addam had believed surrender would not be long after the first stones struck inside the city and the freedmen turned on their rulers, but never had he dreamed that Laren would give battle to the Dragonhunt. It was true that the host had been lessened in number by the Unshackled left in Sere, yet as he watched the shambling horde Addam Marbrand could only agree with Ser Lyle. This was madness.  
  
“They’ll have soldiers in that pack,” Ser Jaime said, eyes narrowed.  
  
The Young Lion had grown a beard, Addam saw, and had never more looked like his uncle. It did not cover the red scars on his cheek left by flaying, though the work had been so cleanly done they seemed more decoration than mark. Lord Tywin’s son was the kind of man any knight would be proud to serve, bold and brave and now grown famous for it. House Lannister had covered itself in glory, in Essos, and already the tale of Ser Gerion and Ser Jaime opening the gates of Myr after being smuggled through barrels was a legend as dear to westermen as the harsh justice sung of in the Rains of Castamere.  
  
“Garrison men,” the Strongboar grunted. “Nothing like the hard fuckers in Myr. It’ll be a slaughter, Ser Jaime. The city’ll be ours by sundown.”  
  
“Seven,” the Lannister grimaced. “This is no army. There are children in the ranks.”  
  
And women too, Addam saw. It seemed as if the triarch kings had put blade and bludgeon into the hand of any they could muster before sending them out to die to the might of the Dragonhunt.  
  
“It will be dark work,” Ser Addam said. “Yet it must be done, for the city may be seized by Lys if we hesitate.”  
  
The Young Lion’s face hardened.  
  
“Too many children have already been slain by men in red, Marbrand,” he said. “I will not carry that blemish across the sea.”  
  
The heir to Ashemark stilled his tongue and let none of his thoughts show on his face.  _Tread lightly here,_  Addam, he thought.  _Only dead men lie between feuding lions._  
  
“Ser Addam, you have the command,” the Lannister said, and spurred his horse.  
  
As their commander rode away, the Strongboar squinted in the sun.  
  
“The fuck is he doing?” Crakehall asked.  
  
Addam had no answer for him. It took an hour, for truce banner had to be brought and King Robert’s permission sought. The Baratheon laughed when told of Ser Jaime’s intent, it was later said, and gave his blessing without argument. The kings of Laren would not have agreed, he decided years after, were they not desperate. Yet agreed they did, and on the field between two armies the Soldier King and the Smith King bared blades against the Young Lion in the trial by combat that would settle the fate of Laren.  
  
The Kingslayer had earned his title twice more, when night fell, and the city was theirs.


	49. Early Summer II

Extract from 'Archmaester' Alleras’ work, “Strange Bedfellows, or, A League of Rogues”:  
  
 _“Before writing of the details histories are so often concern themselves with, of pacts and speeches and borders traced on parchment, I would first write of the three men who founded what is now often called the Second Triarchy. It is said in faraway Yi Ti that character is fate, and has time not proved the truth of this adage?  
  
Prince Mylerio Trallion, who men named the Tattered Prince still long after he claimed the crown of Pentos, was by repute savage to his enemies and treacherous to his friends. His attempt to seize the northern half of the young Kingdom of Summer has not been forgot, or his later squabbles with Braavos after it backed his seizing of the throne. Yet most who treated with the prince found him charming, and his wit was said to be as sharp as it was amusing. King Robert was said to be fond of the man, and indeed never turned on him even when it became expedient to do so. Prince Mylerio’s years as a sellsword forged the man he became, teaching him the same audacity and ruthlessness that saw him rise to prominence. It was these traits that led him to take risks men who inherited their rule would have balked at, such as allying with a pirate prince and foreign soldiers instead of remaining a protectorate of the Secret City or striking bargain with Lys at the peak of its might.  
  
There are some who would dispute that King Robert Baratheon was truly one of the three, ascribing the alliance instead to Lord Admiral Gerion Lannister’s foresight or the ever steady stewardship of the Silent Prince. This is doing the man injustice. While a distinguished admiral and the ruler of the Sunset Town, the Lord Admiral was envoy and not agent. The intent, in the end, did not come from him. As for Prince Eddard Stark, it is an admitted truth of the man himself that he was no diplomat. His well-documented propensity for hanging slavers and infamously uncompromising sense of justice made him ill-suited for the work. King Robert, however, was cut of the same cloth as the other rogues. Twice winning a kingdom in battle, he was the boldest man of his age and a warlord without peer. The empire he carved was match for the one he left his brother, and this he achieved by courage that twinned recklessness and a talent for binding talented men to him.  
  
Prince Salladhor Saan, who titled himself Prince of the Narrow Sea even when all he ruled was a fleet of pirates and a few spits of windswept rock, was ambitious as any of them. Once merely a pirate of middling fame, his rise to power was paved by the doom of greater men. It has been said that only a handful of the ships in Prince Salladhor’s great fleet were not stolen, and there is truth in it. The fleet that became such a scourge was made of what was once the Silver Prince’s own, of Myrish galleys and Tyroshi carracks and ironborn fleeing the wroth of King Stannis. When Myr fell this pirate prince boasted a fleet that, while no match for those of Braavos or Volantis, was not much weaker than that of the other daughters of Valyria. Yet the prince was without a true holding, and knew his force would soon splinter if it had no territory to call its own. His failed attack on Tyrosh to remedy this only served to allow Lys an easier taking, and it was this frustrated ambition that saw him turn to the other two._”  
  
\--  
  
 **Gerion Lannister**  
  
Bloodstone was not as grim as the name pretended, Gerion thought. He’d watched the island as the swift carrack that had once belonged to some magister sailed past the coast. The  _Laughing Matter_ , he’d named it. It had gotten one of those rare smiles out of Eddard, much to his pleasure. The seat of the Prince of the Narrow Sea was the same Daemon Targaryen had once claimed for his own, and though not rich land by any means was not unlike Fair Isle in the Westerlands. Crops could be sown, olive trees grew in groves and the handful of clear streams were enough to keep thirst at bay for any men who cared to live there. It was not the first time he looked upon these shores, though this once he was not surrounded by armed men on the deck of his own ship. It was a marked improvement, no matter how courteous Saan’s sellsails had been.  
  
To name what welcomed them a port would have been doing the word disservice. There were docks, true, and piers of rough stone. But too few for Saan’s great fleet to anchor there. They had been hauled onto beaches instead, those belonging to the captains that kept to the pirate’s court. Hundreds were scattered across the Stepstones instead, for the Prince of the Narrow Sea had given fiefs to his favourites, and more were prowling the waves looking for fat merchantmen. There were few enough of those, these days. The troubles on the Narrow Sea had killed trade and Saan’s captains ushered it into the grave. What fool would risk the Stepstones with such a fleet holding them?  _He needs a city_ , Gerion thought.  _To hold or to sack. His men grow more restless every day, and when the riches are spent and the wine ceases to flow he will have trouble he can ill afford._  
  
The Lannister’s ship had been given room to anchor by the docks and so his crew was saved the trouble of hauling the carrack. He gave them leave to make merry with the pirates, though he warned them not to cause trouble. There were bound to be whores and ale wherever this many sailors made their home and after the journey from Myr his men needed to get the blood flowing. The Prince of the Narrow Sea received him with great courtesy, and a feast was thrown in honour that stretched long after night fell. It was in the quiet hours, after wine and women had sent most men to slumber, that Salladhor Saan met with him in truth. It was the hall of a prince, Gerion thought as he entered, and a pirate as well. Banners hung from the walls, from Lys and Tyrosh and Myr. Pentos, Ibben and even a few from Braavos.  _He had the blood washed off before hanging them_ , the Lannister thought.  
  
A throne stood on a dais of driftwood, yet Saan invited him to sit at his side instead. Serving girls brought them wine and the rogue insisted that Gerion drank with him. He was, the Lannister knew, trying to get him drunk. In this the last laugh would belong to Lannister. Though Tywin always grew thunderous when he saw any of his kin in their cups, for his brother wrestled the ghost of Father still, Gerion had often drank through bottles with Tygett when the Lord of the Rock saw them not. Their own rebellion, he liked to think of it.  
  
“Much praise has been lavished upon the Dragonhunt, of late,” Prince Salladhor smiled. “Every bit of flattery deserved.”  
  
For all that the man dressed like a peacock, all daggered sleeves and jewelry set on silver cloth, he was still tan and lean. Like a blade with an ornate handle, no less sharp for the pretention.  
  
“Victory has smiled on you as well,” Gerion replied. “We have heard of your prowess against the fleet of Tyrosh.”  
  
It was said Lys might have lost the battle, had Saan not struck the Tyroshi in the back. The Lyseni had crushed the Myrmen in the Sea of Myrth, yet lost ships and good captains. Without this man their banner would not fly over the black stone walls of Tyrosh.  _And there lay our chance_ , Gerion thought, f _or those banners belong to Lys and not Salladhor Saan. He is not a man to easily accept this._  
  
“Bringing peace to these waters has been the labour of my life,” Saan modestly said.  
  
The Lannister almost guffawed at the sheer audacity of that.  
  
“King Robert is most grateful for these efforts,” Gerion baldly lied. “Ans grieves this is not more common sentiment.”  
  
Robert thought the pirate was a hungry dog that might bite their foes before he turned on them, if they fed him the right scraps, and the Baratheon was one of the kinder voices on the Council of Four in this. Eddard would have him swinging from a rope within the hour given chance and the Blackfish had often voiced opinion Saan had to be dealt with if their holdings were ever to know true peace. As for his dear nephew, Jaime held to indifference. He believed the wars could be won without a fleet at their back, and saw no need to send envoy to Prince Salladhor at all.  
  
“I have often thought the same, my friend,” the prince smiled. “Did you know I entertained magisters from Lys, not long before you came?”  
  
“I had not heard,” Gerion said.  
  
Yet he was not surprised. The Lyseni needed a leash on him if they were to keep what they had taken.  _He means to weigh their offer against ours_ , the Lannister thought.  _Play the bargains one against another to his benefit._  
  
“The magisters speak many words,” the man said mildly. “Salladhor, they say, you are a son of Lysl. Your heart lies with us, and your ships should as well.”  
  
“Do they?” Gerion asked.  
  
The sleek man shrugged.  
  
“They would make me a magister,” he said. “They would make me an admiral.”  
  
He smiled, yet his eyes were cold.  
  
“But I say that I am not these things,” Salladhor Saan said. “I am a prince. So let us bargain, yes?”


	50. Early Summer III

Extract from “War on the Rhoyne” by Dyleos Jhaquar, translated from High Valyrian and annotated by Maester Basan of the Eastern Citadel:  
  
 _“Though in these days I was but a scholar, a historian the likes of which were too numerous to count inside the walls of Mighty Volantis, this humble one had the privilege of being appointed as chronicler of the glorious enterprise that was the reclaiming of the Rhoyne. This office was bestowed upon me by the wise Triarch Malaquo Maegyr, whose brave nephew Haenion Maegyr had been named to captain the forces of the city.*  
  
*By our records Dyleos was a favoured lickspittle of the Maegyrs, having come to the attention of the Triarch by writing a history of his ancestors so flattering a whore would blush at the shamelessness. Readers should expect continued verbose cock fondling of any man bearing that name for the remainder of the text.  
  
The host that marched out of the gates of Mighty Volantis to humble the wayward sisters of the north was the greatest the city had fielded since the Century of Blood. Twenty thousand men, free and slaves both, advanced north to cover themselves in glory after their hearts were set aflame by the stirring oration of Haenion Maegyr, whose words I record here though they are immortal without my quill.*  
  
*Said oration lasted longer than an hour, and was widely mocked at the time for the way slave speakers were set before every company to repeat it. The cost for that flourish was judged as equivalent to that of a manse in Pentos. I will spare you the reading.  
  
To this great host was joined an inconsequential band of exiles from the Sunset Kingdoms, led by Rhaegar Targaryen. In the hope of the wise rulers of Volantis this princeling hoped to find redemption for his many failures in the west, where he famously lost both an empire and a city in the span of a single year. His base character is now, of course, known to all. Volantis would come to regret the kindness if had shown this shadow of a snake in years to come.   
  
At Selhorys the best of the city, led by its most courageous, joined with the men of the Golden Company who had been made to wait outside the walls of the city on account of their sacking of Qohor many years prior. There Captain Myles Toyne, known as Blackheart, made comment on the wisdom of the the arrangements the city had made for this campaign.*  
  
*He goes on for two paragraphs, managing to work the shaft of every living Maegyr without speaking in detail of the ‘arrangements’. Though the Tigers had furnished ten thousand slaves trained for war, the Elephants had balked at providing their part of the host. Instead of coughing up the gold for soldiers, they called upon their debtors to serve in exchange for dissolution of debts under a certain amount. This so-called Debtors’ Legion was seen as expendable by Volantene captains, and treated as such.  
  
The men of Qohor and Norvos were as frightened children and hid in their lands as the host of Volantis continued its march north, Haenion Maegyr wisely advising that the Sorrows be avoided even if the march was made lengthier for it.*  
  
*It must be said that Volantis was better prepared for war, having declared it. Allowing the Volantenes to advanced unopposed while it mobilized, Qohor beggared itself buying Unsullied from Slavers’ Bay as Norvos instead turned to the pirates of Dagger Lake, with the results that follow.  
  
The first battle was met upon the shores of Dagger Lake, where Volantis erased the blemish that was the ancient defeat on these waters incurred during the Century of Blood. The treacherous pirates of these islands, grasping by nature, burned many barges of grain and attempted to assault the camps during the night as the armies of Qohor and Norvos attacked. Though the Golden Company fought bravely against the Unsullied of Qohor, it was the peerless courage and might of the noble scion of the Maegyrs that earned victory that day. His clever manoeuvre to draw the pirates ashore to better crush them was a daring feat of war as few were seen before.*  
  
*Haenion Maegyr shat the bed. He lost most the supply barges, having left too light a guard on them, and when the pirates landed on the flank while the armies were engaged he sent the Debtors’ Legion to chase them away. Scared of the mist and dark, ill-equipped and worst led, these men were cut to pieces and the entire army might have collapsed had Rhaegar Targaryen not personally led his Dragonsworn to bolster them. The king’s reputation rose greatly with these men in the aftermath, to Maegyr’s fury.  
  
Though losses were steep on both sides,*  
  
*The allied cities lost a thousand at most, while records on the Volantene side vary between two and five thousand.  
  
the superior morale of the men of Volantis saw them recover swiftly as their wretched foes fled north to fled to the ruins of Ar Noy. Ruins for the ruin of an army, as sure a sign of the will of the gods as can be asked for. Some craven and short-sighted officers disagreed with this evident truth that battle should be given again.*  
  
*Captain Toyne and King Rhaegar joined hands in advising that pushing north before more supply barges arrived was madness, but were largely ignored. Toyne’s assessment that “fighting fucking Unsullied” on chosen ground was similarly foolish did nothing to sway Haenion.  
  
After settling such fears with charm and wisdom rare in one so young,*  
  
*He threatened to stop paying the Golden Company.  
  
Haenion Maegyr led the hosts north to find glory once more.”_  
  
\--  
  
 **Jonothor Darry**  
  
Night fell on the third defeat in as many days. Ar Noy was proving a harder nut to crack than that little shit Haenion had thought, to no one else’s surprise. The Golden Company’s siege engines had torn down what wasn’t already ruins, yet it had only strengthened the resolve of the enemy. They had Unsullied to spare, and unlike Jon’s own host they were well-supplied. He’d admit that while Maegyr was an arrogant twat at least the boy had balls, and since the first assault fought in the fray. More than any of them, the captain from beyond the Black Walls knew what dire consequences awaited them in Volantis should they fail here. Jonothor allowed his squire to help him out of his plate in silence, disdaining a wash before striding out to see to the men.  
  
The Dragonsworn, as so many now called them, had numbered more than a thousand when they had crossed the Narrow Sea. Now they were barely that, and sellswords had been drawn in to fill the ranks. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and only man still rightfully wearing the white cloak, thought little of them. They fought well enough, but would only remain as long as there was coin in the coffers. And how long would that last? The wealth his king had fled with had melted since Pentos, and there’d been precious little plunder since. In Ar Noy lay no treasures for them, he knew. What little could be seized would go first to the Volantenes and the Golden Company, with only scraps tossed at the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms.  
  
The mood in the ranks was somber. It had been since the Battle of the Stones, in truth, and what could he say to bolster their spirits? The Iron Throne was on the other side of the world, Baratheons ruled on two shores and House Targaryen stood alone. There would have been desertion, he thought, if the men had anywhere to go. Yet his king spoke of this war as the beginning of his returning fortunes, and who was he to gainsay Rhaegar Targaryen? He had promised to obey, when he donned that cloak, not question. Torchlight already lit the inside of the king’s tent, he saw as he approached, and one of the voices he discerned has him frowning.  _Benerro, that dark-skinned leech._ Ever whispering of his false god in Rhaegar’s ears, promising a great destiny awaited him should he take the Red God for his own. The kingsguard saw his distaste reflected in his brother Willem’s face, when he entered.  
  
“Ser Jonothor,” the king greeted him. “I saw you in the fray. You fought well.”  
  
Exile had aged the man, Jon thought. Many had once called Rhaegar the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, a true son of the Conqueror’s line. Yet the wound the Usurper had inflicted in Andalos left its marks. The shoulder was crooked still, and there was white in locks that had once been fully silver. Always melancholy, the man now hardly ever smiled.  
  
“As did you, Your Grace,” Jonothor said. “The men speak of it still.”  
  
“Do they?” Rhaegar asked, and the glimmer in his eye spoke of a lie seen through.  
  
“The Dragonsworn are leal, one and all,” Willem said. “We will not fail in your service.”  
  
“The failure was mine, Ser Willemn,” the king said. “I did not grasp the sacrifices that need be made. Our foes do not understand the calamity they court by opposing us.”  
  
“Men are ever blind,” Benerro said, standing by a brazier. “A king must place in trust in greater power still.”  
  
The man stood between shadows and light, wreathed in red and with eyes ever-moving. He missed little, this one, but spoke of naught but his red demon.  
  
“Men are how we return to the Seven Kingdoms,” Jon said. “Armies. Not this eastern superstition.”  
  
“Is is still superstition,” Rhaegar said, “if it proves true? Benerro makes me promises.”  
  
“There is only one god,” Benerro said. “And he knows his champion.”  
  
“And will your red prick beat back Qohor?” Willem sneered.  
  
Rhaegar Targaryen unsheathed the dagger at his side, and placed his wrist over the brazier.  
  
“Let us find out,” the king smiled.


	51. Early Summer IV

Extract from Archmaester Robert’s work, “The Sellsword King”:  
  
 _“In the year that followed the fall of Myr, as strife spread across the Seven Kingdoms due to Balon’s Folly, the great captains of the Dragonhunt struggled to turn revolt into realm. King Robert Baratheon and Ser Jaime Lannister, after their swift annexation of Laren, marched on Tobronos and began what would be a long and arduous siege. In the heartlands of what would become the Kingdom of Summer, Ser Brynden Tully raised and forged the army that would make the despots of the east tremble in years to come while the Silent Prince lay the foundations of law and prosperity from his tower. As the Dragonhunt toiled, its enemies grew as well.  
  
Lys, in these days, was the most powerful it had been since the fall of Valyria. Its magisters, not content with merely snatching Tyrosh while the city’s very host was watching impotently from the shore, annexed significant territories in the Disputed Lands that once belonged to their humbled rivals. Border was established to the north when Ser Jaime’s cavalry ambushed a company that had come too close to Laren, while advantage was taken of the distraction of Tyrosh’s remnants to make greater gains to the west. The city of Tyrosh itself proved unruly to Lyseni governance, though the magisters had learned from the fall of others of their kind and so dealt with the matter decisively.  
  
A conspiracy by free men and traders to deliver the city back into the Archon’s hands was brutally crushed, the conspirators crucified along the length of the curtain walls. Though in their own holdings the Lyseni had answered revolts with massacre, a lighter touch was taken in Tyrosh. It was announced that all slaves owned by Tyroshi magisters who had fled the city would be allowed to enter a lottery, and a number corresponding to a tenth of them would be freed when their names were drawn from urns. Slaves suspected of conspiracy would naturally be denied this right. The cunning ploy smothered thoughts of revolt until the lottery was held, several months later, when Lys’ grasp on the city was much stronger.  
  
As for the lottery itself, records obtained since indicate it was very likely rigged. There is no other explanation for the way the vast majority of the freedmen were learned or tradesmen, with only enough of the lesser slaves granted freedom to maintain the appearance of chance.  
  
Even as the fortunes of Lys rose, those of the Tyroshi remnant descended. Archon Volerio remained the ruler of the Tyroshi in name, but the fall of the city had broken trust in him irreparably. It was not long before this gap grew into open dissent, and the spark that lit the flame was argument over the marching of the host. Many of the magisters among the host had kin or holdings in Tyrosh’s two great tributaries, Berosh and Vakar, and spoke of a realm reborn from those two lesser cities. Orations were made of a kingdom carved from the Disputed Lands, abandoning Tyrosh itself as beyond retaking. The Archon, aware that his title meant nothing without the city, fought the notion bitterly. The host of Tyrosh was still camped by the Bluestone, a lesser port facing Tyrosh on the coast and traditionally used to ship grain from the Disputed Lands to the city.”_  
  
\--  
  
 **Volerio Panatis**  
  
Volerio’s unmaking had come in the form of a sealed letter from the Prince of Pentos. Excuses were made, florid courtesies and commiserations for the fall of Tyrosh, but of the intercession the Archon had asked no mention was made. It had always been a far hope, the man reminded himself, stroking his blue beard. Volerio had long come to suspect that the Dragonhunt had long slipped the leash the Tattered Prince once had around their necks. There would be no peace with the monsters to the north, then, no reprieve bought with promises and concessions while his remaining strength was brought to bear on Lys. The filthy whoremongers would continue to run rampant, greedy fingers grasping everything in sight. And what could the Archon do, in the face of this catastrophe?  
  
He ruled nothing, now, not even his host. Men he could have crushed with a careless sentence a year ago now gave him insult with impunity, buying officers and sellswords with gold sent by their kinsmen in Berosh and Vakar. The power had always lain with Tyrosh, and without Tyrosh he was nothing. Men in their cups now called him Archon of Bluestone, the mockery of it harsher than the lash. Bluestone, which every Archon since the Century of Blood had crushed underfoot to ensure its port would never grow to rival the city, never be more than docks for grain sent across the water. How bitter the truth of that was, now that his writ ran no further than those crumbling brick walls. The magisters that followed him still were not loyal but desperate, those who had lost all when Lys took the city.  
  
They would turn their cloaks, if the right offer was made, and Volerio did not have the means to beat it when it came. Gods, when had it all fallen apart? He had not thought Prince Mylerio would bend easily, unlike the fools in Myr, but neither had he thought defeat was possible. Not with only the Windblown and some sunset exiles to serve as the man’s host. They’d all thought too little of the Dragonhunt, and ruin had come from it.  _Yet I have learned, merciless gods,_ he thought.  _Why let me learn, if not to make fortune of it?_  The panoply of godly cunts had never replied before, and did not. The Archon summoned the magisters to assembly, that evening, and as he watched them whisper like girls he read the death of Tyrosh on those faces. They thought a realm could be carved from the Disputed Lands, he knew. Already Berosh and Vakar bickered over the city that would be the capital.  _We will be the slowest sheep of the herd_ , you fools, he thought.  _And the wolves are prowling these lands._  
  
“Magisters of Tyrosh,” he said, and he was not yet so far fallen they did not give him silence, “I call you tonight to make a plea. Though defeat has humbled us, the war is not lost. Bargains can be made, to retake our home. The seat of our fathers, and their fathers before them. Do not let fear lead you to folly.”  
  
They did not listen, damn them all. So many would rather be princes of the pot rather than servants of the house. Volerio still held influence, and had ruled these men for decades. He knew where the hatred lay, what rivalries to inflame and smooth away. It was not enough. Less than ten thousand men remained of the host, when the moon turned. The rest marched away under the command of fools, to die for a foolish dream. It took skill and his humiliation to prevent steel from being drawn between those that left and those that remained, but he would not have the last gasps of Tyrosh spent against each other.  
  
The Archon of Bluestone watched the tides silently from the shoe and wondered if he would be the last man to ever bear that title.  
  
\--  
  
Extract from Archmaester Armen’s masterwork, “Summer Crowns, or, the Last Death of Valyria”:  
 __  
"Wise men learn to glimpse the hands of the Seven at work in the affairs of the world, and in few histories are those hands so visible as in the year that followed the fall of Myr. Indeed even as King Stannis ended the Greyjoy Rebellion and served justice unto the savages, earning the name of Hardhand and returning peace to the realm, the pieces were placed on the cyvasse board for the second blooming of the War of Chains. A year of peace, however troubled, gained King Robert much. Armies were raised, territories granted to worthy lords and alliance struck with Pentos and the Prince of the Narrow Sea. Much like the pendulums that can be seen at the Citadel, the arrow of war swung back to Essos as soon as swords were sheathed in the greater of the Baratheon realms.  
  
The battles to come would be greater and harsher than those before them, for in those days the Dragonhunt had been a host without a kingdom. Now it would be kingdoms that fought for primacy over the eastern shore of the Narrow Sea, and the Kingdom of Summer was not the least of them. Lys stood at the summer of its might, holding nigh two thirds of the Disputed Lands as well as Tyrosh. Though their truce was Prince Salladhor Saan was uneasy, their fleet was greater and their hosts the largest of the warring kingdoms. Tyrosh was a mere remnant of a once proud city, severed into two lesser powers. The Archon of Bluestone raged in the port of the same name, without fleet or great army, while his fellow magisters united under the elected princes of Berosh and Vakar. Each was a cornered and hungry beast, and the more dangerous for it.  
  
In Pentos the Tattered Prince bade his time, displeased by Braavosi influence in his city and pondering ways to wrest back full rule from the Sealord. His Windblown had grown as other realms warred, hardened veterans bolstered by green men eager for the plunder of glory the former sellsword promised them. In the Stepstones, Prince Salladhor brooded over slights and seas empty of plunder, seeking remedy to both through a war he knew he could not win alone. Yet of the fleets that then sailed the Narrow Sea, his was second to none but Lys’.   
  
Spread across the territories that had once belonged to the magisters of Myr, the captains of the Dragonhunt prepared for war. King Robert and his Lannister captain, having sieged Tobronos for nigh a year with little to show for it, grew more restless and wary with every passing month. Under the walls of Myr, Ser Brynden had forged the howling horde of Unshackled into a legion of disciplined, hardened killers. The Silent Prince, having turned his bloody hands to the arts of peace and just rule even as his liege warred, had taught order to the newborn Kingdom of Summer. His duties discharged, he turned his eyes south again. The Disputed Lands were as a keg of wildfire, and four months after the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion the flame was lit.  
  
It began in Tobronos."


	52. Chapter 40

It remembered Ned of Riverrun’s godswood, that bright garden where he had stood in his brother’s name to seal the marriage pact with House Tully. Lady Catelyn had been a sight in her gown of samite, southern maidenhood made flesh. Her sister had looked the lesser in every way, standing by Jon Arryn, though her blamed her not for it. Eddard knew better than most the lot of the secondborn, ever to be a paler shadow of a beloved elder. In the year since the fall of Myr, the trees and weeds had overtaken the manse. Painted tiles were broken by roots and tufts of grass, what had once been a large pavilion now crowded by a thicket of unkempt oaks and laurels. The tall walls brought a stillness to the place that was a rare thing, in this city, and so Ned had taken to coming here for prayer.  
  
There were other sanctuaries such as this, he knew, though most outside the walls of Myr. Though the Stark had never spoken of the gods of his forefathers, some of his northerners had not shared in his reluctance. There was a grove, nestled against the outskirts of the city, where Lady Maege’s shieldmaidens had taken to prayer. Of the bones that could be glimpsed among the roots of the great oak within, under carved mark of broken shackles, naught was said. The peoples of Essos kept to many gods, he knew, and saw no wrong in worshiping myriad. It was no longer rare thing for Unshackled and freedmen to kneel before marked trees, calling the Old Gods breakers of chains watching over them. More still had been taught of the Seven, though no septons had followed the Dragonhunt and soldiers made poor priests.  
  
Ned knelt in silence, wreathed in the dawning light of sun. A year now he had held Myr in Robert’s name, and grown so very weary. He had been charged with weaving realm out of ash and hate, bitter toil that came unceasing.  _Victory was no end_ , he thought.  _It was the banners called for struggle harsher still._  They had been fools, to believe an end would come crisp and clear. Months clawing this city back from the brink had taught him the truth of that.  _Yet now that the first green has come from the snow, the carrion has come calling,_  he thought. Men came to Myr bearing banners from far and wide. Pentos, Braavos, Lys. Even Prince Saan had sent secret envoy, kept tucked away from prying eyes by Tybero. And now that King Stannis had buried the last of the Greyjoys, the Seven Kingdoms too were turning their eyes east.  
  
The Faith had been first to reach the shore, but would not be the last.  
  
Ned let the silence of the pavilion pass over him, stilling the worries that grew by day. It was mummery, that a second son such as him was to be tasked with treating with the powers of the world, yet who else would if he did not? The Blackfish balked at the work, Ser Gerion spent his hours with shipwrights and sailors and the other two captains of the Dragonhunt were far away sieging Tobronos. The duty fell to him not for worth but because he alone stood willing to abide it.  _Grant me wisdom,_  he asked the gods.  _Lest untold thousands pay the price for my mistakes._  The quiet that was his answer he knew like an old friend, and when the sun rose in full so did Eddard Stark. He alone tread the grounds of the ruined manse, but he knew a ring of steel surrounded it. Maege had brought doubled the guard after the Ashen Men first attempted to take his life here.  
  
Brushing an errant strand of grass from from his grey doublet, Ned passed the crumpling gate and found a score of shieldmaidens awaiting him. Among them stood a single man, one Eddard had come to know well of late. Tybero Istarion had grown thinner, in both belly and hair, yet his hands were still stained with the ink that had earned him his byname. The older man bowed as Ned’s retinue parted for him.  
  
“Lord Eddard,” he said. “A pleasant morn to you.”  
  
“And to you, Lord Intendant,” Ned said.  
  
The Second Sons, though not disbanded for the failure in Sere as the Long Lances had been for their butchery in Myr, were now a company in naught but name. Robert kept no Small Council, but the need for a Master of Whisperers had been dire and Tybero Istarion had filled the duties with great skill. Ned had named him Lord Intendant of Myr for it, charged with the keeping of the king’s peace. The Second Sons now numbered thousands but most no longer armsmen, instead a net of whisperers and watchers that spread far beyond the walls of the city. At the worst of the unrest led by the Ashen Men, Eddard had been forced to hard measures and had five hundred seals of iron made bearing the broken sword that was the company’s banner. Men in possession of these were given right to act with the weight of the king’s name behind them, and had hunted the insurgents across alleys and winesinks with implacable ruthlessness. It had been ugly business, but the Ashen Men were a plague upon the realm.  
  
“My watchers have word for you, my lord,” Tybero said. “The vigil kept on the priests was fruitful.”  
  
Ned’s grey eyes studied the easterner, before he silently gesture for the man to speak.  
  
“A few younger septons left their robes for brothels, after the important men retreated to their rooms,” the Lord Intendant said.  
  
The Stark began to walk, the former sellsword falling to his side as the shieldmaidens surrounded them. He answered not to the news, for he cared not of young men failing their robes. They would not be the first septons to let flesh lead away from their vows. Ned knew something of the temptations, though it was doing slight to Dacey to call her such.  
  
“At first light, men were sent to see the city,” Tybero continued. “Some to Embers, yet more to the temples by the docks and the empty manses.”  
  
 _No coincidence, this_ , Ned thought. The Embers had been born of the part of the city he had ordered torched, and under his rule homes had been raised there for the freedmen that numbered so many. A year past, and still more stone and wood was brought to put roofs over heads. The septons, he thought, sought land for the building of a sept. There was one in the city, built by the docks for Westerosi sailors, but the septon who’d held it had been slain during the sack and never replaced. Men of the Dragonhunt had kept it from ruin since, and used it for prayer, but half the painted sculptures had been stolen and not since found.  
  
“The man leading them,” Ned said. “Have you learned of him?”  
  
“Septon Moridon,” the Lord Intendant said. “He is of the Most Devout, the oldest among them. They say he holds the Sunset King’s favour, for having preached in favour of closing brothels in his city. The boys that went whoring call him Septon Morose, for his frequent dark moods.”  
  
No wonder, then, that King Stannis was rumoured to be fond of him. Ned remembered the younger Baratheon as taking smiling for slight, no matter how kindly meant. The Stark thought in silence as they made for the towers, Istarion long used to his quiet. Robert had charged with him with securing loan from the Faith, for though only a third of what they owed the Iron Bank remained unpaid the bankers had of late been pressing for payment in concessions instead of coin. The Baratheon misliked this, and so did Eddard. Though Ned had seen to it that Myr had coin for the task if need be, there were a hundred demands for coin every morn and most were worthy. Without trade and with only the ruins of a realm to feed it, Myr bled coin still and may yet for years to come. A loan from the Faith would end the debt to Braavos and offer much relief besides.  
  
“There is one last matter,” the Lord Intendant said, lowering his voice.  
  
Ned studied him calmly.  
  
“Your patience has borne fruit, my lord,” Istarion smiled coldly. “My watchers saw sailors come with Magister Lyrion meet with Ashen Men.”  
  
The Stark allowed his lips to quirk in satisfaction. The Lyseni envoy had trouble writ across his slaving hide from the moment he came ashore, but Eddard had ordered his men followed and not troubled. Though Istarion’s eyes had caught and hung many of the Ashen Men, never had they found those that lay at the heart of the beast. Freeborn with blades and torches were danger, to be sure, but he had long suspected some magister remnant lay behind them. There need be coin to pay for the knives and bribes, and no disgruntled tradesmen had the means for them. It had been gamble to wait and see if they would seek to meet with the Lyseni, yet Ned had chanced it. The Ashen Men would need allies outside of the city if they were to ever be more than pest, and only Lys now stood mighty enough to have the men to challenge the Dragonhunt.  
  
“Find me the ringleaders, Lord Intendant,” Eddard said. “Too long have we watched for blades in every shadow. I will have an end to them.”  
  
There were gallows, raised before the towers from which Myr was ruled, and it was a rare month where no men were sent to them. Ned would see the city scoured of the last of its old disease, before he marched to war again.


	53. Chapter 41

 Though the hall where the foremost magisters of Myr had once held council still stood and a throne had been built to loom over it, Eddard had no love for the ornate chamber. The Stark had claimed the tower of a flesh-trader for his own, and after stripping the quarters of the frivolities had turned it to a court of scribes and ledgers. There were hundreds of learned men and women filling the halls and rooms, a host of former slaves whose spilled ink was the fuel for the rule of Myr. Ned had ordered what had once been an enclosure where guests were offered their pick of slave girls in small chambers made into a wide room of benches and tables where he could hold audience. It was there he received the delegation of the Faith, six septons and septas led by white-haired Septon Moridon.  
  
Two score of his retinue stood guard in silence, and Dacey behind him as well. His lover thought little of the lot, and had told him as much in bed the night previous. The Mormont called it southern foolishness to fashion houses and idols of stone, much less to take tithe in their name that could see men through winter instead. Eddard did not rise when the delegation entered, for this he owed them not, and instead calmly invited the envoys to seat themselves. The seat that was his own stood on a round dais of stone, where magisters had once reclined on long seats as slaves danced for their pleasure. The plain oaken seat that was his own stood defiant of that foul past, yet remained higher than the seats of others. Ned made no claims of his own, but this day spoke for King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name.  
  
“In the name of the Seven Who Are One the High Septon sends his blessing to King Robert,” Septon Moridon croaked. “It is a great regret that His Grace’s crowning could not be properly anointed in the eyes of the Seven.”  
  
He was a wisp of a man, Ned thought, halfway into the grave. His white hair was plenty but his face wrinkled as leather in the sun.  
  
“The king is grateful for the regard,” Eddard said. “And welcomes the Faith to his realm.”  
  
“I am gladdened to hear of it,” Moridon said. “Long have we worried for the souls of this faithless land, bereft of true shepherds.”  
  
One of the septons, younger than the rest and having a weaselly look about him, leaned to murmur in the Most Devout’s ear. Moridon dismissed him sharply, muttering of ignorant heresies. Eddard felt Dacey stir behind him, though did not chance a quelling look.  
  
“Though great and needful work has been undertaken in the Iron Islands, thought has been spared for the east,” Septon Moridon said. “The High Septon would send the faithful to serve in this city, yet is stricken with worry.”  
  
“The king would ease these worries,” Ned calmly said.  
  
It would have been proper, the Stark knew, to speak of Robert’s great love for the Seven. Yet he would not lie, and the truth of it was that his foster-brother had oft complained of the prattle of priests in the Vale and once jested that the statue of the Maiden in the Eyrie’s sept had truly godly teats.  
  
“These are troubled times,” Moridon said, “and your kingdom is yet young. His Holiness fears for the safety of the faithful, and would have reassurance before sending them to serve.”  
  
It was not undue worry, Ned thought. Though Myr was firmly in the grasp of the Dragonhunt, Lys and the remains of Tyrosh lurked hungrily. Even in these streets the Ashen Men slew those they called traitors and invaders, and may turn their blades on priests of the Seven Kingdoms.  
  
“The city watch would see to any septons welcomed by the city,” Eddard said. “The same can be arranged in Sere and Laren, should the journey be made.”  
  
Cough shook the old man’s body, spittle whetting his lip until he mastered himself.  
  
“His Holiness would not burden your soldiery with such duties when your realm stands imperiled,” he croaked. “The Faith can see to its own safety, should proper dispensations be made.”  
  
Ned first took the meaning to be that sellswords would be hired, ‘til he found the veiled looks on the faces of the delegation.  _No, not sellswords_ , he thought.  _They would raise the Faith Militant anew on these shores._  
  
“Only the Dragonhunt and those sworn to it may carry weapons within the walls of Myr,” Ned said. “This decree is at the order of the king himself.”  
  
Had been, after Eddard sent him letter to ask it.  
  
“A small matter to remedy, for a king,” Septon Moridon said. “Small labour, for the love of the Seven.”  
  
 _Small labour_ , he thought.  _You must take us for fools. Targaryens on dragonback bitterly struggled through two reigns to force the Faith to surrender its blades._  The High Septon sought host of his own in Myr, kingdom within kingdom. Eddard silently watched the delegation, giving no answer. Brigands in robes, one and all. The septon that had whispered to the Most Devout cleared his throat as the silence grew thick, and bowed his head.  
  
“Lord Eddard, it has been our understanding that the king sought to discuss matters earthly His Holiness,” he said. “Such a conversation would grow much easier, should the High Septon’s worries be laid to rest.”  
  
The Stark turned grey eyes on the man, until he flinched.  
  
“Your journey must have been difficult,” Eddard said. “I give you leave to rest. Audience will be had when you are recovered.”  
  
Septon Moridon reddened and few well received his unspoken dismissal.  
  
“To turn from the light of the Seven would bring great misfortune,” the Most Devout rasped, rising to his feet.  
  
“Never before,” the Stark coldly said, “have I known gods to be so concerned with swords.”  
  
He mastered his wroth before it could grow, and afford stiff courtesy to the delegations as it was invited to withdraw. Ned remained in the seat long after they had gone, until Dacey laid hand on his shoulder.  
  
“There will be trouble,” she warned.  
  
Eddard slowly nodded.  
  
“Fetch me ink and quill,” he said. “Robert must be told.”  
  
Fingers tightening against the arms of his seat, the Stark leaned forward.  
  
“And send for Tybero,” he added. “I have orders for his watchers.”  
  
Seven had came before him, and two spoken, yet there were many more that had come with the carrack. Younger men, that would not be in the council of the High Septon. Years ago, Ned would have thought naught of it. Yet he had learned hard lessons since crossing the Narrow Sea. It may yet be that accord could be reached with the Faith. Dispensation could perhaps be given to a few, never to grow enough to be threat if turned unruly. Yet how many faiths kept temples, in the docks of Myr alone? Should they all demand swords, blood would come from it sure as dawn, and this Eddard Stark would not allow. The High Septon may water his wine, if offered hard refusal, but Ned had never known men who wore crowns to be of mild ambition. Years of cold letters traded betwixt Myr and King’s Landing would gain the Dragonhunt nothing. Matters would have to settled before that.  
  
From the sack of Myr, Ned had learned a harsh truth. That lords ruled only so long as the men beneath them obeyed, that in the face of unheeding mass words were wind. The Lord Intendant would find the ambitious men among the delegation, and if there were none of that breed then he would find the weak and the pliable. And should the Most Devout sail back to King’s Landing in wroth, he would do so with septons carrying an offer.  _Cross the sea_ , it would say.  _You will find sept and flock there, and the protection of a king._  
  
His Holiness may yet water his wine, if he worried of losing half the cup.

 

 


	54. Chapter 42

It was a mummery of a Small Council, yet Ned must hold it nonetheless. Robert’s kingdom spanned barely a third of the North, yet the numbers that dwelled under the king’s peace dwarfed those of the lands his father had once ruled. There had been need for men to be granted titles and authority, lest he be buried under a thousand duties. The solar was close to his own quarters, and large enough to hold twice as many men as it now did. There were seven of them seated, an irony Gerion had oft jested of when in his cups. The Lord Admiral of the Dragonhunt was seated at the side of the Lord Intendant Tyberio Istarion, Lannister charm having there found purchase. The captain of the Second Sons had always offered great courtesy to the most prominent of the Westerosi, ever eager to be in the good graces of the men that still formed the heart of the Dragonhunt.  
  
For the office of Lord Steward, Ned had not quibbled before naming Arnolf Karstark, who had already filled it in all but name. Though the gaunt man had to Eddard made intent clear that he wanted lordship of his own, he was for now content to serve as the steward of Myr and its territories. The northerner had once commanded armed men but now fielded host of scribes and messengers, clawing back Robert’s realm from encroaching shortages month after month. He had sent for his two sons and his wife in Karhold, but as from all ships sent to White Harbour there had been no word. The North, they said, was closed and not merely to men of the Dragonhunt. Maege had raged of it to him behind closed doors, furious that she would not be told of the health of her nephew and daughters. The ironmen, Ned knew, always turned their eyes to Bear Island when they went reaving. Worries were growing, and wroth with them.  
  
The only Essosi in the room save for Tyberio, the Lord Seneschal was a grim and taciturn man. Boro of Lys had served in the Unshackled since their founding, freed from slavery in the first of Robert’s southern raids from the sunset town, though that name he no longer used. Blackspear had fought a serjeant at the Battle of Skylarks, led a company in Sere and been granted command during the siege of Myr by the Blackfish’s own word. The phalange missing on his left hand was admission of his weakness there, and Ned would not have named him had Ser Brynden not pressed the matter. N _o man is more zealous than a convert, Stark_ , he’d said.  _That one will never take bribe, and come at our enemies like a hound._  There had been more to it, Tyberio whispered later. Naming a man who had faulted in Myr would reassure those that still feared of it. Ned had taken the advice, and not regretted it.  
  
Lord Seneschal Blackspear was a scourge unto himself, running the city guard and lesser courts with unflinching devotion to the king’s laws.  
  
The Lord Treasurer was a concession appointment that still sat ill with Ned. He would have preferred Ser Wendell Manderly for the seat, as the crippling of the man’s leg had him unfit for fighting, but he had been warned of raising too many northerners. The title had gone to Ser Maron Errol, a Stormlander cousin to the lord of Haystack Hall who had lost a hand at the Cage of Rats fighting at Robert’s side. He was equal to the task of overseeing the city’s coffers, though not distinguished. There had been need, the Blackfish had advised, to entitle men of all kingdoms. One Ser Brynden’s own rivermen the Ser Andrey Charlton had become lord of Sere as well warden of the northern marches, and Ser Eustace Hunter made lord of Laren, yet few honours had been granted to men of the Stormlands and fewer still to westermen. The last of these were less a worry, for honours had been offered and declined. The men sent by Tywin Lannister to guard his son would not easily leave his side, not even for lordship of their own.  
  
The last man was Ser Brynden himself, these days styled High Captain of the Dragonhunt. Few begrudged him the title, for the host that had grown outside the walls of Myr was his labour and his alone. The Blackfish, Ned knew, had done more than raise and train a host. He had seen barracks and training fields built that would keep when the Dragonhunt marched, named officers that would keep raising soldiers as long as there would be need for them and coin to pay for the steel. Eddard had built realm and city from the ashes of the old Myr yet the Tully’s effort had not been lesser in any way. The Blackfish’s work, he thought, may yet outlive his own. War was ever easier found than peace.  
  
“Twenty five thousand are ready for war,” the High Captain said. “The fresh Red Lances I already sent to Tobronos, for seasoning under Ser Jaime. I would call our full force equal against any of the seven kingdoms, save perhaps the Westerlands.”  
  
“The Reach has great numbers,” Lord Treasurer Errol said.  
  
“With a great many captains, each thinking himself most brilliant,” the Blackfish said. “And a great many levies under them. The Unshackled are no smallfolk with spears, Errol. They are soldiers, many bloodied in hard fighting. We’d chew through green levies in an afternoon’s sport.”  
  
“The Reach is also very, very far away,” Gerion drawled. “Let us put this debate to rest, lest the wine turn sour. Some of my captains brought talk of Westeros less grim. The queen has given birth again.”  
  
Ned was glad to hear of it. He had hoped that the marriage bed of Robert’s brother would not be barren, for even if the Lady Cersei did not take to her husband joy could be found in children. That a son had been soon to follow the wedding had been good news, and this better. The Seven Kingdoms had bled enough.  
  
“Twins,” the Lord Admiral grinned. “In true Lannister manner, though that is all they keep of my blood. Black-haired girls both.”  
  
“Ser Jaime will be glad to hear of it,” Ned said.  
  
He had always been close to his sister, perhaps as close as Eddard would have been to Lyanna had he not been fostered.  
  
“And the North, do your captains speak of it?” Lord Arnolf asked.  
  
Squinty grey eyes had grown sharp at talk of the Seven Kingdoms. Three months now the Lord Steward had awaited word of his family, and the Mormonts even longer.  
  
“Naught that will bring any of you joy,” Gerion said. “The kingsroad is closed, and Ryswell armsmen guard the docks of White Harbour in Lord Brandon’s name. Tariffs have been raised on traders, they say to rebuild the North after ironborn depredations.”  
  
Ned’s blood went cold.  
  
“To set such tariffs is the sole prerogative of the king,” he slowly said.  
  
Lord Tywin, as the Mad King’s Hand, had brought much wealth to the kingdoms by lowering the same on a handful southern ports. Jon Arryn had oft praised the decision when Eddard was a boy.  
  
“Aye,” Gerion grimaced. “I know little of King Stannis, but the man is said to be unbending. Your brother will be called to account, Ned.”  
  
 _Gods, Brandon, what madness has taken hold of you?_  His brother was giving open slight to a king who had ended more noble houses than the Conqueror himself, and with no dragons under him.  
  
“My nice,” the Blackfish said. “Have you word of her?”  
  
“Men speak not of Winterfell, save to say the Cripple Lord rules naught but his bedchamber,” Gerion said. “I sent a trusted man to speak with Lord Manderly, and should see him return within a sennight.”  
  
Ned closed his eyes. He could do nothing, from Myr, to save his brother from his own foolishness. Sending envoy to King Stannis either in his name’s or Robert’s, he thought, may do more ill than good. The younger Baratheon would not look well upon the older meddling in the affairs of his throne.  
  
“Tell us as soon as your man returns,” Eddard ordered, eyes open anew. “Do any of this council have more to speak of?”  
  
The Lord Intendant cast look at the Lord Seneschal, who inclined his head.  
  
“The city is too quiet,” Blackspear spoke in accented Valyrian. “My guards have scourged the lesser rings of Ashen Men and caught no sign of the rest. They withdraw not without reason.”  
  
“Lyseni support, if it was truly gained, will have emboldened them,” Tyberio said. “I believe they are preparing for a strike, to prove to foreign magisters they are worth the coin.”  
  
Ned watched them silently.  
  
“Where?” he asked.  
  
“The king is beyond their reach,” Lord Blackspear said, “much as they wish otherwise.”  
  
“The royal nursery, however, is not,” the Lord Intendant finished.  
  
Eddard Stark’s eyes went cold.  
  
“Lay the trap,” he said. “And prepare the gallows.”


	55. Chapter 43

Robert’s children now numbered twelve, and few of them had ever so much as seen the man. Most had been kept in the sunset town, before it was granted to Gerion Lannister who had then laughingly called himself lord of river, shit and huts. In the months following the fall of Myr, Ned had sent for mothers and children both and settled them in the city. He had near sent them to Sere instead, for the Ashen Men had prowled the nights then and did still, but had instead doubled guard on tower that was made theirs. It had proved trouble since the first day, mothers squabbling over others having larger quarters and larger luxuries. To settle the matter, as no one else dared to speak on the matter of the king’s bastards, Eddard hard ordered their rooms and possessions to be the same one and all. It had been, to his dismay, like pouring oil on flame. None were pleased, least of all those that had been even an inch above the others.  
  
He had then deemed this womanly matter, and handed rule over it to Maege Mormont to the sound of Dacey’s laughing mockery. Jests were made of the battalion of teats and babes that had routed the fearsome Eddard Stark, though he called it good bargain regardless. The elder Mormont’s ferocious manners ended the river of complaints ever licking at his boots, and allowed him to turn his attention to matters of true import. There had been only ten mothers and babes, then, but two more were sent to the gates of Myr as the siege of Tobronos lengthened. Though uncomfortable with the matter and reproach both, Ned had sent to his foster-brother large stock of moon tea and mannerly-phrased reminder that there were not so many towers in Myr that two could be used to house royals bastards. He later learned through one of Jaime’s letters that Robert had read it to his officers, laughing uproariously through it all.  
  
The children were too young to wander or be taught their lessons, the eldest a babe of three fathered in Andalos, but servants and learned women were sent to ensure no sickness would take them. Some in the city fondly spoke of the bastards as  _Stormborn_ , the king’s get that would one day inherit his wars. Of crowns they spoke not, and the better for it. Robert remained firm in his word he would never wed, leaving only Summer babes to follow in his wake.  _There will be grief from this_ , Ned thought. Yet that grief would be long in coming, and the day had brought fresher blood to Myr. The Lord Intendant had true in his suspicious, yet suspected too little. The Ashen Men had struck twice in a night, and once struck to the bone.  
  
The royal nursery had seen blood spilled, but not that of children. Crossbowmen caught the Ashen Men, decked in servant livery, as they skulked through the story under the Stormborn quarters. Half the ten men were dead within moments, and Dacey led Eddard’s shieldmaidens into capturing the rest. One bit his own tongue, but three were clapped in irons and dragged to the old slave pens that were now the seat of the city watch, named by men the Grey House. The Stark had been riding for it when word reached him of the other attack. Fires had been lit throughout the glassmaker quarter. The flames reach a man’s height before two of the Lord Intendant’s seal-bearers caught sight of it, one baring the iron sword seal to call for every man, woman and child within earshot to put out the fire. The other claimed command of coming city watch and led them in pursuit of the fleeing Ashen Men.  
  
Only one was caught, a bolt in the leg seeing him tumbling to the ground as the others scattered in the dark. Eddard’s temper rose, for this had the hand of Lys behind it. When Myr had fallen many of the magisters and their most prized artisans, the glassmakers chief among them, had fled for the island-city. The secrets of making glass had been bargained into status with the Lyseni magisters, yet fell short of what was still came from Myr under the Dragonhunt. Ned had made of the freed slave artisans and the remaining free men who knew the trade a guild in service of the crown, and found the selling of glassworks one of the few trades that brought wealth to Myr still. Braavosi and Westerosi traders sailed to the city for them, and as word spread the coin the ships brought had swelled. Though the exiles in Lys knew the ways of glass equal or better to the crown’s guild, their workshops had not fled with them. The quality of the guild’s work, he had been assured, was still superior to that of the exiles.  
  
Whether it would remain so after the fires was not certain.  
  
Turning to Tyberio’s rman, he gave orders. The port was to be closed, no ships to leave the city. The Lyseni envoy to be seized and any men in his employ with him. Resistance was to be met with steel. To his wroth, the Ashen Man fired upon bled out before reaching the Grey House. Those Dacey had caught were put to the question before the hour was out, and Ned himself attended to Magister Lyrion. The slender, handsome man was frothing when the Stark entered his cell, flanked by the Lord Intendant and a pair of his Second Sons.  
  
“This is a disgrace,” the Lyseni yelled. “I was promised safety. To break this is to declare war on Lys itself.”  
  
The irons the magister had been forced into kept him against the wall, half crouched and leaning forward. They had, Ned was told, been crafted so that any slave forced in the position for more than an hour would find the pose horribly painful. Eddard sent for a bench, allowing the man to scream as he would until he simply hung panting.  
  
“Your kind sent men into cells like these, once,” Ned quietly said. “I am told that no slave that went into the deep pens ever saw light of day again.”  
  
“I am no slave, you filthy savage,” Lyrion hissed. “I am a magister of Lys, with rights and privileges of envoy. Lay hand on me and this hovel will be burnt to the ground with you in it.”  
  
“I am not,” Ned said calmly, “a magister. I will not carve your flesh or gouge your eyes, though with the work of tonight I would be within my rights to see it done.”  
  
“Your king will deliver you to Lys in fetters to be made sport of,” the magister said. “Your pack of wretches is surrounded by enemies.”  
  
“The last time a magister ordered the death of children in the presence of Robert Baratheon,” Ned replied, “they flew over these walls.”  
  
Half the man’s wroth, Ned saw, was terror turned sharp. The man had the Valyrian look, hair of silver and eyes like gemstones. Pale skin, soft hands and blood that yet remembered ruling over half the world.  _You rule nothing, down here_ , Eddard thought.  
  
“I am told that it is a fashion in Lys to breed slaves for traits,” Ned softly said. “As we do hounds. I wonder, Magister Lyrion, if you have been bred for courage.”  
  
He glanced at Tyberio, who produced a vial. The Second Sons forced the man against the wall and his mouth open as the Lord Intendant poured the contents and forced him to swallow.  
  
“I did not think to ask,” Eddard said. “Lord Intendant, what is the substance called?”  
  
“Manticore venom,” Istarion said. “Treated for a slow death.”  
  
“This is murder,” the magister croaked.  
  
“It will be, at dawn,” Ned said, and rose to his feet.  
  
He nodded at Tyberio, who placed a second vial on the bench. The magister stared at it like a starving man bread.  
  
“The antidote,” Eddard said. “Which you may earn, should all our questions be answered.”  
  
“You lie,” Lyrion hissed.  
  
“It will be an hour before he begins feeling the effects,” the Lord Intendant said.  
  
Ned watched the envoy silently, for a long moment.  
  
“Let us give him two, to consider the matter,” he said, and left the cell.  
  
Magister Lyrion began to call out before the first hour was passed, as Eddard watched the interrogation of the Ashen Men.  
  
He was made to wait two regardless.


	56. Chapter 44

When dawn touched Myr it found empty streets. What few men had retreated to alehouses and brothels watched their mouth, for word had already spread that knives had been bared in the dark. The city watch was out in force and with them the Second Sons, seal-bearers leading companies into breaking doors and seizing Ashen Men and suspected sympathizers. Of the men captured trying to blood the royal nursery, only one had found his tongue loosened by beating. The Lord Intendant had a list of names before the moon rose high, and began the grisly work of following the thread to the beginning. The questioning grew harsher as hours passed, for Istarion knew the longer the wait the more Ashen Men would escape the noose.  
  
It was Magister Lyrion that gave them the key. Though kept ignorant of the inner working of the Ashen Men, the Lyseni had insisted on a name for the man his city was to back. It was, Ned learned, no such thing. Felian Gaelyr had been wife to a magister and mother to three sons, all four killed by Unshackled under Brynden Tully when he stormed the port after Myr was breached. Hiding with free men her husband had once patroned and burying the treasures she could not flee with, the grieving widow swore war against the Dragonhunt. Quietly she gathered and hid the surviving magisters in the aftermath of the burning, though found few. Most of what she gathered were women, for where men had been killed in the sack their like was used in darker ways.  
  
As the hours spanning the night passes, Eddard Stark sat in candlelight and learned of how close he had come to doom. The blades had been but a shadow, mummery to keep the Second Sons chasing in the night. The Lord Intendant had never found the heart of the conspiracy, for he had been looking for men.  _Women_ , Ned thought.  _We never thought to watch the women._  Widows and daughters that had spread unrest like poison through the city. The Stark had formed guilds under the crown of the trades Myr was famed for, the lacemakers and the glassmakers and the weavers, and through them spies had spread as well. Those had never taken knife and made conspiracy. All they had done was give whispers and open doors, for the promise of wealth and power when Lys liberated the city.  
  
That had always been the intent, and the depth of the conspiracy troubled him. The magisters of Lys had been plotting with the Ashen Men long before they sent envoy, the magister have been ordered to Myr as means to funnel coin and steel to the rebels.  _They will know our numbers_ , he thought.  _They will know our officers, the lay of our armies._  The city under his rule had been a sieve, and though the Second Sons were drowning that failure in blood the pot was already broken. In the end, five hundred Ashen Men and twice as many conspirators were sent to Grey House. Felian Gaelyr herself was not among them, for the widow had set fire to her hiding place and slit her wrists when the city watch found her. Peeling away the treachery layer by layer took until noon, and still some fled. The Second Sons would hunt them ‘til every name was stricken from the list.  
  
Dacey came to him at dawn, smelling of smoke and blood, but found him in no mood for bedplay. He sat by her as she washed instead, aghast at the scale of his failure.  
  
“You should be smiling,” his lover said, rising dripping from the tub. “You’ve pulled them out root and stem.”  
  
“By day’s end,” Eddard said, “a thousand Myrmen and a half will hang. I have fought battles, Dacey, that did not kill so many.”  
  
Wrapping herself in cloth, she sat down at his side on the warm stone.  
  
“This was a battle,” she bluntly said. “You have won it. Grieve the foolishness, if you must, but not the traitors. They fought for chains on ten times their number.”  
  
“Would so many have conspired, if the Dragonhunt had not bloodied the city?” Ned said. “Widows and daughters. That was our foe. In ten years, will I be hanging their sons and brothers?”  
  
“Aye, if they claim the same cause,” the dark-haired woman said. “Hang enough and there will be no more, I’d think.”  
  
“Robert’s throne is built on mud,” Eddard murmured. “If we keep watering it with blood, never will it dry.”  
  
Dacey leaned against him and sighed.  
  
“It is one of your dark moods, I understand,” she said. “It will pass. Men are always fussy about killing women when the birth is high enough. Girls are beaten bloody in hovels every day, Ned. Pretty eyes and a sad song do not make this tragedy.”  
  
He allowed himself to enjoy the warmth of her. It had been months, since he last thought of honour when her skin touched his.  
  
“I do not,” Eddard said. “Grieve it.”  
  
“Then don’t look so grim,” Dacey smiled.  
  
“This does not worry you?” he murmured. “It does me. More than a thousand, dead at my order, and for none will I swing the sword though the sentence was mine. I will not look them in the eyes. There is no honour in this. It is pulling weeds before they strangle us.”  
  
 _And how much of the world can I drench in blood, before blood is all I see and all I know?_  Robert had named him ruler but no decree of his brother’s had made him butcher. Eddard thought of the Court of Knives and disgust still came, but now with it the knowledge that no conspiracy had grown to threaten Prince Mylerio since. The thought lingered, that if he had ordered a score of deaths a year ago half the men about to hang would not be headed for the gallows. It would not have been just, to order death for treason that may never come.  _Is it any more just, to wait for them to lead others to the gallows along with them?_  
  
“If we look back we are lost, Ned,” the dark-haired woman said. “We are birthing a kingdom from the ashes of an old one and that’s the thing about ashes.”  
  
She looked at him with hard, dark eyes, and in there he found the North staring back. The same glint old men had when they walked into the snows, the same old stillness of barrow and crypt. He’d known southerners that were hard men, but never like this.  _Because they do not know winter, and winter is what made us._  
  
“You don’t get them without a fire,” Dacey Mormont said.  
  
Eddard was tiring of bitter truths, but he would not deny them.  
  
\--  
  
A month passed, before Myr let out its breath. The bloody days had passed, and streets filled again. The delegation from the Faith was given second audience, and with Robert’s writ in his hand Ned made them second offer to take back to the High Septon. To guard the sept that would be raised in Myr the septons would be allowed to field seven times seven men, answerable only to the Faith and the king. The sept would exempted from tax, to Eddard’s distaste, and though not allowed to collect tithe from the city or other lands would be granted yearly donations from the crown of a sum to be agreed upon. Should septs be raised in other cities or territories, the same number of guards would be granted though they would be forbidden to ever gather. It was, in the Stark’s eyes, too generous an offer. The Blackfish disagreed, when they talked of it over cups, for he found more uses than mere priesthood from the men sworn to the Seven.  
  
“Wherever septs are raised much follows,” Ser Brynden said. “Silent Sisters, holy brothers and most of all alms. There’s too many people to feed in this city, Stark. Let the septons buy souls with bread, if it spares our granaries.”  
  
“All of these will look to the Sept of Baelor for guidance,” Ned said. “We place boot on our throat and pay for the privilege.”  
  
The Blackfish snorted.  
  
“You’re a fucking heathen, so this blasphemy is forgivable,” he agreeably replied. “Most our Westerosi aren’t. And there’s greater game behind, do not forget. King Stannis forbade us recruiting rights, but he can’t forbid men to cross the sea. The right sermons would swell our ranks.”  
  
The northerner frowned.  
  
“You built your host well enough without,” he said.  
  
“Aye, the Unshackled will keep and the Red Lances have knights that never saw sept nor vigil,” Ser Brynden said. “But you know we need more than that. Every man you put on your council is one less officer for me. Aubrey holds territory the size of half the Crownlands with no lords under him, and his only council is Unshackled and guildmen. Eustace Hunter sends me letter every month asking for highborn to lead his garrison. In ten years the freedmen will have learned to rule, but we have a kingdom now and not in ten years.”  
  
Eddard, after they parted, gave the matter little thought. There were greater dangers looming, and a great deal closer.  
  
He would come to regret this.


	57. Chapter 45

Braavos moved before the Faith gave answer. There had been envoy from the Sealord in the city since the sennight following Robert’s coronation and the Iron Bank had sent men as well, but Ned did not oft have reason to speak with them. The Lord Intendant had kept watchers on their number, for Eddard had not forgot the last spans of the Myrish war. The Sealord’s clever diplomacy had seen Lys turn on its fellow Daughters, but neither the Tattered Prince nor the Dragonhunt had been made aware of those efforts. Braavos would ever see first to the interests of the Secret City. The Stark would seek no enmity over this, not when the crown still owed so large sum to the Iron Bank, but would not offer blind trust to the merchant princes who had bought the humbling of Pentos with coin and grain. Braavosi ships were of the few traders that still anchored in the port of Myr, but they did not do so often.  
  
To pass through the Stepstones and the pirates infesting them, the Braavosi sent their carracks in large convoys escorted by war galleys. Their merchants called this reason for the hard prices they bought lace and glass for, arguing that the bribes that must be paid to Prince Salladhor for safe passage were disastrously lowering their profits. Ned had doubts, but even a trickle of gold instead of a river was relief enough on the coffers of the kingdom he dare not raise objection. Westerosi were no better. Though few ships came from north of the Stepstones, merchants from Sunspear and Oldtown had begun to make appearance since the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. They offered prices no better than the Braavosi, speaking of the ruination brought by ironborn reavers onto their shores and how it had beggared the lot of them. Men in Dorne and the Reach were growing wealthy off the losses of Myr.  
  
Eddard would not act, not now, but he would remember. Spring friends found no hearths offered when the snows fell.  
  
The man that led the Braavosi delegation was named Jonogo Antaryon, a younger cousin to the Sealord and said to be high in the man’s trust. In his year in Myr the Braavosi had whored and drank and sometimes spoken with merchants, but little else. He was amiable and witty enough, but Ned liked him not. He had spoken the kind of crass jest over the Stark’s shieldmaidens that Robert sometimes did in his cups, but Eddard bore no love for the Braavosi like the one that buttressed his irritation at his foster-brother’s coarseness. They had last spoken over the matter of a brawl between a freedman and a Braavosi trader that saw blood spilled, and Ned first thought similar matter would be brought when Antaryon sought audience. Ushered into the same Round Room where the Stark had received the the Faith but days ago, the Braavosi entered with his flock of attendants. Courtesies were offered as due, and before long Antaryon broached his intent.  
  
“War has too long ravaged the Narrow Sea, my lord,” the man said. “The powers of the south are exhausted, and even your great king has found no success before the walls of Tobronos. The Sealord sees this, and grows uneasy.”  
  
“War was declared upon the Dragonhunt, not by it,” Ned said.  
  
“Aye,” Antaryon smiled. “A mighty mistake, and one dearly paid for. The magisters have learned the might of your swords, and now seek to make amends.”  
  
Eddard’s face grew cold.  
  
“Do they?” he said. “I have seen fires that speak otherwise.”  
  
“Many fires have been made, of late,” the Braavosi said. “Would it not be wise to put them out before they burn us all?”  
  
“Peace is a fine thing,” Ned said. “Peace in chains another.”  
  
“All have heard of your lordship’s honourable stand against slavery,” Antaryon flattered. “The Secret City sings your praises for it, and rejoices the old cause of Braavos has found such a great friend.”  
  
“Yet,” Eddard said.  
  
Praises from traders never came without cost. The only oath the magisters of Braavos had ever sworn was to coin.  
  
“Yet many thousands will die, should the Disputed Lands continue to burn,” the man said. “The fields lay fallow, the granaries empty. Famine lurks, and its hungry sword spares men neither just nor wicked.”  
  
“You come,” Ned frowned, “to speak in the name of Lys.”  
  
“I speak only for the Sealord,” Antaryon easily said. “Yet my cousin has been approached by many men, who all seek end to the bloodletting.”  
  
“The Sealord’s kindness is a blessing upon us all,” Eddard said, the faintest hint of rue in his voice.  
  
“Though Braavos is a city of peace and would never wage war against treasured friends,” Antaryon said. “Let my words not be taken as ill-wishes on your great cause. We know your wisdom and that of your king is peerless, and so only offer opportunity.”  
  
“And what,” Ned asked, “would be the face of this opportunity?”  
  
“Should your king be willing, the Sealord offers to host conference in Braavos,” Antaryon said. “The magisters of Lys have agreed to this offer already, and it is known that Prince Mylerio walks hand in hand with King Robert. Should so many great men grant their blessing to this effort of peace, it is not in doubt the Tyroshi would give theirs as well.”  
  
Ned found much in what had been unspoken. If the Sealord expected Robert to bring the Tattered Prince to the table, the meaning lay bare that Ferrego Antaryon himself has failed in that labour. Otherwise Prince Mylerio’s agreement would have been presented to force the hand of the Dragonhunt, a looming threat to the north of the marches should it prove unwilling.  _The Tattered Prince has kept to the alliance struck in Sere,_  he thought. The man was no less monster for it, but mayhaps a monster that could tell friend from foe. That no word had been spoken of Salladhor Saan was telling. The Prince of the Narrow Sea was thought by the Sealord to be nuisance and not ruler.  _Saan has wrung gold from their merchants too often, and they would see him dead for it._  Ferrego Antaryon would see the Narrow Sea ruled only by the fleets of Braavos and Lys, with Pentos and the Dragonhunt left to sail at their permission alone.  
  
“Such an offer would have to be brought before the king,” Eddard said.  
  
A lie, this. Ned already knew the answer Robert would give, and it rang of steel. No truce with the slavers could be had. He spoke it anyway, for he was wary of the Sealord’s stand should he be refused without pause.  
  
“We would not overstep,” Antaryon smiled. “We hope only your voice will speak with wisdom when council is given to your foster-brother.”  
  
The Stark considered the Braavosi in silence, letting it stretch. He had learned, on these shores, that the quiet frightened men more than shouted fury. Rage came and went, like fire spent. The stillness of winter swallowed steel and bone alike without a whisper. Antaryon paled, and Ned thought he would hesitate before speaking of the friendship between Robert and he ever again.  
  
“I will see to it the matter is promptly resolved,” Eddard said.  
  
The dismissal was courteous but firm. The elaborate Essosi rituals of parting were fresh done when he sent for Istarion. The Lord Intendant joined him in a smaller solar the northerner much preferred to the grand Round Room.  
  
“You will seek, I think, whispers of Braavos,” Tyberio said.  
  
“This reeks of pacts made in the dark,” Ned said. “I understand not why Braavos is so solicitous of Lys. They have not grown mighty enough to challenge the Sealord’s fleets.”  
  
The hatred for Saan, he understood. The man was brigand of the seas, one who was sat astride the trade lanes Braavos needed so sorely. But to align so closely to Lys? Antaryon was lending strength to a city that would rival his.  
  
“You will have heard of the colours, I believe?” the Lord Intendant asked.  
  
“The greys and the golds,” Eddard said. “Braavosi who preach war against the slavers, and those who would see peace restored instead.”  
  
“The greys are not so virtuous as that, my lord,” Tyberio said. “Though they find much support among the people, the magisters that lead them are those with deeper ties to Lorath and the Seven Kingdoms. As the fortunes of the golds dwindle, theirs rise. The Sealord’s faction boasts most of the powerful in the city.”  
  
“And these men are forcing Antaryon’s hand?” Ned said, brow creasing.  
  
“I must warn you I have few eyes so far north,” the Lord Intendant said. “What I speak now is my own understanding, and not ironclad truth.”  
  
“Your understanding has ever proved sharp, Lord Intendant. I would hear it,” Ned said, and the man looked pleased at the praise.  
  
It was well-earned. Istarion and his Second Sons had proved more necessity than mere boon in the ruling of Myr.  
  
“The Free Cities have ever been a creature of balance,” Tyberio said. “Yet that balance no longer lives. Of the Three Daughters one has crowned King Robert and another fallen to Lys. Tyroshi possessions has become mere borderlands to be fought over by greater powers. The king’s alliance with Pentos, I believe, worries Braavos greatly. Prince Mylerio alone could be brought to heel, but the Unshackled have never lost a battle. As long as Pentos and Myr clasp hands, a power has risen greater than the others.”  
  
“Lys fields armies and fleet larger than ours,” Ned said. “And the Two Princes ever eye our borders hungrily.”  
  
“Aye, Lys would not fall easily,” the Lord Intendant said. “Yet in the plains, men fear the banners bearing shackles. Should the Dragonhunt win on land while Lys rules at sea, the war could stretch for years. Years where Braavos must either wither or join the dance by striking Prince Salladhor. Much safer, I would think, to forge compact leaving the Stepstones without friend and with many enemies.”  
  
“Should Lys remain unbroken, the Sealord gains rival in the south,” Ned said.  
  
“A rival that will bleed gold keeping Tyrosh under its boot,” Istarion said. “A rival that will watch Prince Salladhor uneasily, and seek help from the Titan to undo him. And, most of all, a rival that must keep armies ever at the ready to face rebellious slaves and the raids of the Dragonhunt. A hobbled Lys surrounded by enemies is boon to Braavos. It will not dare to defy the Sealord, lest he withdraw his hand and let the peace crumble.”  
  
And so without spending a copper or raising a sword, the writ of Ferrego Antaryon would run as a king’s from Braavos to Lys. It was, Eddard thought, a great dream.  
  
A shame the man would have to be awoken from it so harshly.


	58. Chapter 46

Ned had ever slept lightly in the heat, and there was little else to be found in these lands. The thin sheets thrown over the bed he shared with Dacey did little to hide her warm skin, and the dark-haired man allowed himself to run a hand down her flank and over the curve of her taut buttocks. The firm knock at the door that had woken him sounded again, and he abandoned the bed. Putting on trousers, he opened the door half-naked and found one of the shieldmaidens awaiting him. The silver-haired girl, Lyseni by the looks of her, eyed his chest with frank appraisal before speaking under his steady stare.  
  
“My lord, there is an envoy to meet you,” she said.  
  
Eddard looked back into the room, beyond the still-sleeping form of his lover and through the balcony. It was night, and deep enough dawn would not come for hours yet.  
  
“At this hour?” he said. “Whose word do they bring?”  
  
“They would not say, and keep face hidden,” the shieldmaiden replied. “He begs discretion of you. But I know the accent, Lord of Gallows. It is Braavosi.”  
  
Ned hesitated. He had not grown to love this game of secrets and daggers so many men of Essos delighted in, yet to disdain it was to allow the unseen to hack at the foundations of Robert’s throne. It did not feel coincidence, that he would be approached so quietly after having entertained the envoys of the Sealord earlier.  
  
“Have them sent to my solar,” he said. “Quietly.”  
  
The shieldmaiden nodded, hands flashing in the sign of the broken shackle instead of a bow. Closing the door, he found Dacey awake and stretching her long limbs. The sight of it was distraction, not lessened by their earlier bout, but Ned wrested away his eyes and claimed a doublet.  
  
“What was the racket for?” Dacey asked.  
  
“Braavosi scheming,” Eddard said. “It must be seen to. You should sleep, there is no need to rise for it.”  
  
“You wake, I wake,” the dark-haired woman easily said. “I would not let my liege lord go unprotected.”  
  
The Stark’s lips quirked in quiet amusement. She ever only called him thus when it suited her purposes, at least behind closed doors. Dacey stood in a loose shirt and trousers with sword at her hip when he’d finished finding his boots, and he claimed a kiss when handing her her own.  
  
“If you continue, the Braavosi will have to wait,” she murmured.  
  
“It would not be diplomatic, tempting as you are,” Ned replied.  
  
“You’ve gotten better at sweet nothings,” Dacey grinned.  
  
Distance resumed when they left his quarters, though by now there were few in the tower or even the city who did not know the Mormont shared his bed. His solar was close, and they arrived to find a pair of shieldmaiden flanking the open door.  
  
“The envoy awaits inside, my lord,” the Lyseni from earlier said.  
  
Ned nodded and entered. The man inside he had seen before, though not taken great note of. The lowered hood of his cloak lay bare the face of one of the Braavosi that had come with Jonogo Antaryon. A message from Antaryon that could not be risked in open audience? None had been in attendance but the Braavosi’s own men and his retinue, yet the Sealord might not have trusted in his guards.  
  
“I was never given your name,” Ned said, claiming seat behind his writing desk as the other man rose to greet him.  
  
Dacey stood behind him in silence and was granted naught but a glance by the Braavosi. Ignorance of how close she stood to him, or mere courtesy? Courtier frivolities, much less those played by the rules of the Secret City, had never been his strength.  
  
“I am called Greolo of Braavos, my lord,” the envoy said. “I bring you greetings from Tormo Fregar.”  
  
“I am ever pleased to hear of our friends in Braavos,” Eddard calmly said.  
  
He had never before heard of Tormo Fregar, though that meant little. He had but glimpsed a portion of the powerful of the city during his stay there.  _This_ , Ned thought,  _does not promise to be message from the Sealord._  
  
“Your are as mannerly as your reputation promises,” Greolo smiled. “Magister Fregar has not been granted the pleasure of conversing with you, Lord Stark, but professes great esteem of your work.”  
  
“I am servant of my king,” Ned said. “My labours are his.”  
  
“We have heard of this,” the envoy said. “A strange thing, to us, for there are no kings in Braavos. Rule belongs to he who best serves its people.”  
  
Dacey stiffened behind him at the words. She’d never been in Braavos, he thought. To her this bordered oathbreaking and treason. It looked of it to Eddard as well, but he had learned some of their ways. The Sealord stood such only so long as he had the strength to keep his crownless throne. Like the seas its ships sailed, rule of Braavos changed with the winds and the tides. One of these changing winds, he thought, had now reached Myr.  
  
“And it is this service,” Ned said, “that now brings you to Myr.”  
  
It was no question, and the envoy did not try his patience by treating it as such.  
  
“Magister Fregar has ever been fond of grey,” Greolo said. “And so would offer warning, now that Sealord’s kin has presented his intent.”  
  
The Braavosi spoke again when he grasped the Stark saw no need to speak.  
  
“Coin, my lord, ever reveals the truth men deny,” he said. “Though Lys sweetly whispers of peace, it has offered precious gifts of to the princes of Berosh and Vakar. Promises as well, we hear tell.”  
  
“And what promises were these?” Eddard asked.  
  
“A third city for them to rule,” Greolo quietly said. “Their crowns made friend to Lys, and that whatever they claim to the north will be theirs to keep.”  
  
 _Tobronos_ , Ned thought.  _They sold them Tobronos, and free hand to wage war against us._  
  
“The Sealord spoke of peace and conference,” the Stark said.  
  
“Magister Fregar speaks of dagger prepared in anticipation of failure,” the man replied. “Of promises made to great men of peace on the Narrow Sea.”  
  
There was much to parse, Ned thought, and too many shadows lain upon words of all who had spoken. Tormo Fregar may be offering false warning, to begin war that would end the prospect of conference and shake the throne of the Sealord. Or mayhaps it was the Sealord whose conference was false, a distraction while Lys roused the Tyroshi to war and prepared for march of its own. O _r there is truth in both, an attempt at peace made as compromise between interests and distaste of Lys._  A man could go mad, chasing whispers and shades without end.  
  
“The magister’s warning is appreciated,” Ned said, after long silence.  
  
“We would have you remember, Lord Stark, that the Dragonhunt is not without friends in Braavos,” Greolo smiled. “There are many who fondly remember your stay there, and it is even said the Black Pearl has sighed of your absence.”  
  
“We have not forgot it was Braavosi friendship that saw us cross the sea,” Eddard said.  
  
Let the envoy read in that what he would. Greolo left as discreetly as he had come, and Ned ordered the shieldmaidens to have him return to the city through the servant doors. Sitting in his chair, the Stark looked forward and saw nothing. His mind was a sea in storm. Dacey sat the edge of his writing desk, frowning. Ned wished the Braavosi had not spoken of the Lady Otherys. He kept no regret over the matter but it was best left behind him.  
  
“Your thoughts?” he asked.  
  
“This Fregar would borrow our blades to kill a king,” Dacey said. “You believe his man?”  
  
“I believe Tormo Fregar eyes the Sealord’s throne,” Ned said. “I believe Lys rules two cities and craves a third.”  
  
Eddard’s fingers clasped around the seal Robert had left him, the crowned stag that might have been heraldry to the king of the Seven Kingdoms once but now ruled over Myr.  
  
“Most of all,” Eddard Stark said, “I believe this scheming is meaningless. When the first slave was freed, this became battle to the death.”


	59. Chapter 47

They already called it the Glass Sept.  
  
Eddard hard urged delay when he had sent the Sealord’s offer to Robert and the patience had borne fruit. Neither the Two Princes nor Lys had advanced while the chance of peace still hung in the air, but the High Septon had spoken into that tense silence. The king’s terms accepted, and with it came a loan. The grey-eyed man watched the rising foundations of pale stone and wondered at the depths of the Faith’s coffers. Rumours from the Seven Kingdoms had that septs were being raised on every island once ruled by House Greyjoy, yet the High Septon could still afford this massive temple and to fill the treasure of Myr anew. Within a sennight of the coin arriving at port, the last of the debt to the Iron Bank was paid. One fewer leash around the neck of the Dragonhunt, though he could not help but think they had merely traded one for another.  
  
The rest of the coin, Eddard had opened to the Blackfish. Another two thousand men were raised, and five hundred horses bought from Pentos and allowed by Prince Salladhor to pass the Stepstones without toll. For all that Ned thought him a rapacious sellsail, friendship with the pirate did not come without boons. The Faith had further filled the Dragonhunt’s coffers by ordering great works from the glassmakers, for it meant to raise no less than eight great domes of coloured glass. It would be, the Stark thought, as large a sept as Baelor’s. The knowledge came not without worry. For such grand work to be made, it meant that the High Septon meant Myr to be the seat of the Faith’s power in Essos.  _The septons already live in the shadow of the Red Keep_ , Ned thought.  _No horse can bear two saddles._  More than a moon passed before the Braavosi stirred to impatience, and it was only when Jonogo Antaryon spoke of riding to Robert’s camp that refusal was given.  
  
The Braavosi left audience in wroth and the Sealord’s cousin sailed away that very night, though delegation remained. The time bought earned the Dragonhunt precious preparations. The garrisons of Unshackled in Sere and Laren were thinned, one reinforcing Myr and the other Robert’s host. Ser Brynden prepared the host for the march and Ned settled the affairs of the city. In his absence, for there would be no talk of his remaining in Myr when war was upon them, rule of the city would fall to his council with Lord Steward Arnolf Karstark as the first among equals.  
  
A fortnight after the refusal, the War of Princes began as over a hundred thousand men marched north.  
  
\--  
  
Extract from Archmaester Robert’s work, “The Sellsword King”:  
  
 _“Though it can be said that the earlier wars waged by the Dragonhunt since landing in Andalos had broken the delicate balances that saw the borders of the Free Cities change little for centuries, it was the War of Princes that saw the old order truly broken. It is only fitting, therefore, that this war would be unlike the others. The First Pentoshi War had effectively broken the foundations of warfare in the Free Cities by destroying or suborning the great sellsword companies the magisters employed two wage war on each other, using their own free men as mere garrisons and temporary levies. The passing of time has allowed learned men to discern in this one of the great causes of the fall of Myr to an army that was but a pale shadow of what the Dragonhunt would later become.  
  
When the War of Princes began, however, more than a year had passed. The great men of Lys and the Tyroshi remnants had earned reprieve, and with King’s Robert host laying siege to Tobronos they were presented with a reminder of the breed of armies they would have to face in years to come. It has been said the Lyseni that best learned the lesson, and their record in the following war gives weight to the opinion. In the face of the prodigious swelling of the Dragonhunt’s ranks over the span of a year, Lys was slowed in arming by the truth that it could recruit from much lesser number of men. In these days, two out of three men in the city’s holdings were slaves and therefore of suspicious allegiance if given blades. Incentives of gold for free men to enrol met with little success, and an attempt at full conscription for free men of age was met with such unrest it had to be lowered to a fifth, determined by draw.  
  
It was the early Lyseni efforts of solidifying grasp on Tyrosh by freeing slaves that offered the magisters perspective, teaching them that hope could be more skillful a tool than the whip. A council of leading magisters calling itself the Conclave, speaking of the Unsullied as example, forged what would become known as the Silver Companies. Male slaves in fighting fit with families were fielded, their kin settled in Lys as hostages against rebellion and desertion. To buy loyalty, the slaves were promised freedom for themselves and their families as well as a plot of land after ten years of meritorious service. Though contentious at the time, the measure proved effective in the following years for the Silver Companies saw little desertion and only five would turn on their masters.   
  
Though these bolstered the ranks of the Lyseni hosts by ten thousand, the greed of the magisters in claiming former Myrish and Tyroshi territories meant a great many holdings had to be garrisoned. This dispersion of Lyseni forces was given answer by a revision of the earlier attempts at conscription. Though the lottery was kept in Lys itself, the Conclave declared broader conscription in tributary cities. Magisters based in these protested and threatened rebellion, encouraged in this by the Two Princes, but the response of the Conclave was swift and brutal. Thorough purges took place over the following months that saw entire lines extinguished and property confiscated. Aware that the bloodshed had not cemented its position fully, the Conclave sought solution in the east.  
  
Three sellsword companies were sent for from Slavers’ Bay, and using the much-remarked upon method of the Silent Prince with the Second Sons were placed under ‘permanent contract’. The foremost officers of the companies were given status and property in the tributaries, and the hatred of the citizens saw them tightly bound to the Conclave, whose support they would depend on for years to come. Though the heavy conscription in the tributaries would have unfortunate consequences for the Conclave in the latter stages of the war, at the beginning of the hostilities Lys fielded a trained army near sixty thousand strong. With the sellswords serving as a core of veterans and the Silver Companies as expendable foot, Lys began the War of Princes boasting its finest host since the fall of Valyria.”_  
  
\--  
  
Extract from Archmaester Armen’s masterwork, “Summer Crowns, or, the Last Death of Valyria”:  
  
 _“Tyroshi after the fall of Tyrosh itself have oft been the but of japes and mockery in writing, and the lack of foresight of the so-called Two Princes does indeed deserve much of what has been put to ink. It is, however, doing disservice to those years of the War of Chains to dismiss them as fools no threat to rightful Baratheon rule, spread to both sides of the Narrow Sea by the will of the Seven. Though mere dwarves lodged between the Great Captains and the height of Lyseni power, the princes of Borosh and Vakar inherited the greater part of the same Tyroshi host that was defeated by the Prince Mylerio at the Battle of the Shingles. Though the lacking command of Essosi hosts has ever been their unmaking and undeniable proof of the inferiority of eastern rulers, the host of the Two Princes was far from the assembly of whores and drunks it has since been presented as._  
  
The army Archon Panatis led to defeat against the Windblown numbered only twenty thousand, half of it sellsword companies and the remainder conscripts from Tyrosh itself. After this host was forced to make shore in the Disputed Lands to put down the slave rebellions wracking Tyroshi territories and impotently watched as the city of Tyrosh fell to the Lyseni fleet, most sellswords considered their contract at an end and made for Volantis, where the war against Qohor and Norvos all but guaranteed employment. The largest number to remain belonged to the Company of the Rose, and its captain bargained for more than coin for his service. Given the position of commander of the Tyroshi armies and the promise of foremost rank in Tobronos when it fell, Captain Hugin Ninefingers undertook the raising of a host that could feasibly lift the siege of the city by the Dragonhunt.  
  
The heart of that army would remain the conscripts from Tyrosh, who had seen themselves dispossessed after the fall of the city and now believed war to be their only road to fortune recovered. The armies and garrisons of the former tributaries of Tyrosh had been left nearly untouched by Archon Panatis, and were swiftly brought under Captain Hugin’s authority. The drills and marches he ordered were highly unpopular, but dissent was silenced by the undeterred support of the two ruling princes. Where Lys famously founded the Silver Companies to strengthen its numbers, Captain Hugin instead turned to the throngs of refugees displaced by the conquests of the Dragonhunt. Men who had not been magisters but were forced out of Myrish territories by the Silent Prince’s decreed reparations by all slave owners were armed and promised return of property after the defeat of the Kingdom of Summer.  
  
Though ill-disciplined and poorly equipped, these men were both numerous and boasting the womanly sort of courage that is the daughter of desperation. Armed with spears and boiled leather in a pale imitation of the Unshackled, these men greatly swelled the host Captain Hugin commanded. In the years that followed the rank and file of the Dragonhunt came to refer to them as the Rags, though it is suggested by contemporaries the appellation bore grudging respect. It must be said that eastern men, when stripped of the decadence and wealth that was their wont under the magisters, have on occasion displayed bravery approaching that of the men of the Seven Kingdoms. These Rags, though often poorly led by Tyroshi officers and deemed the most expendable of his host by Captain Hugin, did stand fast against three charges by King Robert at the Battle of the Orchards. Few other breeds of soldiery in the known world can claim the same.  
  
It has been said that, given another half-year to muster his host, Hugin Ninefingers might have been able to inflict defeat on the Dragonhunt. There is perhaps truth in this, if only by sheer force of numbers. When Captain Hugin was ordered to march north by the Two Princes his army numbered some forty-five thousand men, half of them Rags. Well aware that the hosts of the Dragonhunt were split between Myr and Tobronos, Captain Hugin sought to strike hard from the beginning and defeat the host under King Robert before he could be reinforced by the men under High Captain Brynden Tully and the Silent Prince. It was his misfortune to be ignorant of the truth borne out by history, that no men are so loved by the Seven as those of House Baratheon.”


	60. War of Princes I

**Belenos the Scribe**  
  
Belenos and his sister had been meant for service in the towers, once. Magister Tregenno had called them a better breed than the others, for theirs was the blood of Valyria. Neither he nor Saelissa looked it, though. No silver hair and gemstones stare for them, only dull dark locks and eyes of mud. But they were well-made, in the way the dragonlords had been, and bought at great expense from one of the Lyseni flesh traders that boasted his were the cleverest slaves of the Three Daughters. Belenos did not remember much of those days in the pens, for he had been too young, but Saelissa whispered of them still. Of others boys and girls that failed to grasp a lesson and were never seen again. They had been quick enough to escape that fate, and sold when he was seven years of age and his sister nine. Magister Tregenno had seen them apprenticed to his old steward, who Benelos had deeply despised. The man’s breath stank of strange spices, and he had often stared at Saelissa with ugly intent.  
  
He had been fifteen and there had been talk of allowing him to lay with pleasure women if he behaved when the Dragonhunt came to Myr. Belenos had seen little of the war, though all the slaves had whispered. They said that men were coming to the city that were as gods, a Dragonhunt that would bring the doom of magisters. They came from a land of many sunsets, where no man was slave and seven gods crowned every king. Saelissa had called him a fool when he’d spoken of it, said it was called Westeros and that the sunset men were soldiers and not gods. When he asked if they truly wanted to break all chains she slapped him and bade him never to speak word of it again. It would be years before he understood she had saved his life. In the last days of Myr, the magisters that bled men for even the shadow of rebellion. They said the Lion Knight and his cunning uncle were the ones that opened the gates of the city, and what followed were days of ruin.  
  
Saelissa had been out in the streets when the sack began and came back bruised and bloody, refusing to speak of what had happened. Belenos stayed in the towers with the other learned slaves while Myr burned, until the Lord of Gallows forced justice and steel unto the madness. Lord Eddard Stark, they said he was called. Prince of a faraway land where summer never came and there were such great fields of ice walls and castles were made of it. Belenos spent those days tending to his sister, and for the first time since he was born took a life. Balar the Fierce had been a favourite of the magister’s before Tregenno fled to sea, a pitfighter bought in faraway Astapor and named personal guard. When the masters left, the scarred and ugly man thought to rule the tower. Other slaves followed him and they claimed all they wished within the walls, wealth left behind and any women they wished. One came for Saelissa, while she slept.  
  
Men with their trousers down were slow to move, and no matter how blunt a knife the veins in the neck bled swiftly.  
  
Belenos barricaded the door after and prayed for deliverance to all gods that would listen. It came in the form of the Maidens of the Shield, who stormed the tower and slaughtered all who fought. Balar threw down his cleaver before the Lady of the Bear and offered service in the Unshackled for he and his remaining followers. This was bitter brew to Belenos, for he was a man now and knew the way of this world. Soldiers were men beyond laws of any but the masters, to do whatever they wished. It was Saelissa that came forward. Eye blackened, she named Balar and his men rapers and killers. Benelos tried to quiet her, to avoid the noose for his only kin, but the Lady of the Bear did not kill them. She asked for three witnesses for every man named, and when the slaves came forward the Maidens of the Shield strung up every last one of Balar’s men.  
  
“In the name of Lord Eddard Stark, Captain of the Dragonhunt and all it rules,” the Lady of the Bear had said, voice cool and calm, “for your crimes of rape and murder I condemn to you die.”  
  
That day, Belenos found the people he would follow until the gods called him back to their side. When the Lord of Gallows and his councillors called for those of learning to serve in the city, he was of the first to come forward. Saelissa was at his side, black eye gone yellow but pride unbroken. Many months had passed, since then. The two of them had seen strange and wondrous things in their service of the Dragonhunt. An army repentant, offering bloody phalanges as tribute. A great king crowned among ashes, a sea of banners bearing broken shackles that grew every sennight. The two of them had risen in the trust of the Lord of Gallows, now under the command of the man they called the Ser Wendel. The sunset man had lost hand but now stood close to Lord Stark in all things, keeping ledgers and correspondence in his name. It was Ser Wendel that had sent Belenos to serve as scribe tonight, to keep record of the conversation in this tent and write orders if need be.  
  
“Seventy thousand,” the Lord Stark said. “You’re certain?”  
  
Belenos was in the presence of greatness. Two of the Dragonhunt’s most high sat before him, the High Captain Brynden Tully and the Lord of Gallows. The one they called the Blackfish was older, his skin tanned by hours in the sun and his beard touched with grey. He carried air of wisdom with him, of strength coiled and patient. It was Lord Stark he stared at, though. The Lord of Gallows was quiet as the graves he served unto the unjust, with cool grey eyes and long hair that went down his shoulders.  
  
“I’ve had a dozen outriders tell me the same thing,” the High Captain said. “Somewhere between fifty and seventy, marching in three columns.”  
  
Lord Stark frowned.  
  
“Laren cannot withstand them, if they storm the walls with those numbers,” he said. “Lord Eustace has barely two thousand Unshackled and the city guard.”  
  
“It’s a sure thing they'll storm the city, Eddard,” the Blackfish grunted. “They can’t afford a slow campaign, not with that many men in the field. It would beggar the Conclave.”  
  
“Istarion warned me they were gathering forces, but he never spoke of such numbers,” the Lord of Gallow said. “Even should we steal a march on them and reinforce Lord Eustace the city may very well fall.”  
  
“Laren’s lost,” the High Captain said. “We must make peace with that for now. I worry more of where they march after taking it. If we’re spared treachery, Myr can stand a siege for years. Sere cannot, if they continue north, and they’d corner us just like we did the magisters.”  
  
“Can they?” Lord Stark said. “Their train begins in Baelan, deep in their territory. If it stretches too far we can cut through with horse.”  
  
“They’ll forage,” the Blackfish said, but he was leaning forward. “But you speak true. Sere’s surroundings were stripped clean already. Our writ runs strong enough around Myr we could do the same there. They’d be starving two months into the siege, if we sneak horse past them.”  
  
“Unless the Two Princes sell them grain,” the Lord of Gallows hedged. “We’ve not heard from Robert in too long. By now he should have given battle to their host or retreated.”  
  
“He’s not withdrawing towards us, our riders would have seen him if he had,” the High Captain said. “I fear he may have been reckless.”  
  
“He will not storm Tobronos,” Lord Stark said. “He’s not a fool, Brynden. Robert learned his lesson in Myr. We’ve too few men to waste them on grand gestures.”  
  
“I pray to the Seven he hasn’t,” the Blackfish said. “We cannot march to his aid, regardless. We risk losing the heartlands if we do. We need check Lys while our allies muster.”  
  
Slowly, the ruler of Myr nodded.  
  
“Already they split their host in three,” Lord Stark said. “They will gather to invest Laren, but after? If we draw them deep enough, we could ambush one of the forces.”  
  
“Giving ground,” the High Captain mulled. “Won’t be popular with the men. But it’s better than risking it all trying to hold the city. I’ll pass down the orders. You’ll see to Hunter?”  
  
The Lord of Gallows inclined his head in agreement, and turned grey eyes to Belenos. The freedman hastily bowed, almost dropping his writing desk. He heard the High Captain snort.  
  
“Belenos, correct?” Lord Stark asked.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” he agreed, voice breaking slightly.  
  
“Come sit at the table,” the Lord of Gallows said. “I have letters for you to pen that must leave within the hour.”


	61. War of Princes II

**Hugin Ninefingers**  
  
Before night fell, Hugin would be a prince. The thought amused him still, though he’d had months to grow used to it. The son of a Pentoshi whore, made to stand with magisters who blathered of lines going back to the Freehold and ships sailing from Yi Ti to Lannisport. The princes of Berosh and Vakar had made much of how he would be under their joint rule, prince himself or not, but Hugin knew empty talk when he saw it. When he invested Tobronos with his host of ragged men and conscripts, they would have to make peace with the truth of things.  _The man with the swords rules, and no one else._  He would keep alliance with the two rapacious Tyroshi, for Lys was ever hungry and the Dragonhunt fine an army as these shores had seen in centuries, but he would not throw away the fortune placed before him. Prince Hugin Ninefingers, heh. It had better ring to it than Hugin Whoreson, though that name would be just as true.  
  
The pace he’d kept after leaving Vakar had been relentless, for the captain of the Company of the Rose knew there would be no second chance to smother the Dragonhunt in the crib. The spies of the Two Princes said the Kingdom of Myr could field fifty thousand men, between its two armies, and should the High Captain join his men to the king’s Hugin was not certain he could find victory against them on the field. Numbers would be close enough not to matter but his foot was no match for Unshackled, much less the sunset men. Though the Westerosi were said to be slow as turtles in their armour, they’d broken Myrmen conscripts again and again in the last war. They would have to be dealt with carefully, and he’d trained conscripts for the very purpose. Lightfooted men with slings that would exhaust the enemy in pursuit before slaying them with javelins. It was the enemy horse that would be trouble.  
  
The Red Lances, they were called, under some young cunt who fancied himself a lion because his father had squirted him out under a banner bearing one. This Jaime Lannister was said to be pretty as a girl, and his father rich as a dozen kings. Hugin had given order to take him alive for ransom. The riders had been forged out of the wreck of the Long Lances, an old and honourable company, and those lancers been bolstered with sunset knights since. Half the new men, it was said, were mere slaves in Westerosi armour. The Two Princes mocked this in their cups, but Hugin knew better. Branded or not, heavy horse would fuck the Black Goat of Qohor itself in the arse if they caught it on flat grounds. His own riders were a lancers and twice as many skirmishers, five thousand in whole. Good to run down footmen, but to clash against knights? No, the Red Lances would have to be handled like the Westerosi foot. Carefully baited into exhaustion then overwhelmed.  
  
The plains around Tobronos would be good field for him to give battle. King Robert would be unable to set all his men against Hugin’s host, for he left his back unguarded he was risking sortie by the defenders of the city. If the Dragonhunt marched out to meet him, he could extend his flank to corner them against the sea and close the vise. If they remained by Tobronos, he could push their lines into arrow range from the walls. The enemy had reputation for bold strokes and vicious ruse, so Hugin was careful to have his screen of outriders wide. When he got within two days of the city with still no sign of the enemy, the captain was split between delight and fear. Delight, for perhaps they were taking the king of Myr unawares. Well done, this could mean slaughter and great victory. Fear, for the Dragonhunt may have taken the city while his own host marched. This would be disaster, for Hugin had not come readied for siege. Tobronos had already promised to open the gates to its saviors through envoys, but if the Dragonhunt manned those walls Hugin had neither the men nor the siege engines to take them.  
  
The day before his full host arrived at the city his outriders returned with word from it. The gates were open, and the encampment around them nothing but ashes. His riders had spoken with magisters in the city, who’d told them the Dragonhunt had torched it before marching away. Tobornos was free, and his for the taken. Hugin Ninefingers, when told this, did not smile.  
  
Where the hells was Robert Baratheon?  
  
\--  
  
 **Richard Horpe**  
  
Richard did not know it, but in years to come men would call this Robert’s Ride. What the squire did know was that the army of the Two Princes had marched north while the Dragonhunt marched away. The king had learned through fleeing slaves of the countryside that a host had left Vakar and came for Tobronos through the heart of the Disputed Lands, and held council that very night. Though the Horpe was too young and low of rank to merit attendance at such an assembly, as the king’s squire he’d been given leave to do so. Mostly, if he was to be honest, because King Robert wanted a man to fill his cup when it came empty. He still cherished the privilege. The great men of the southern army were all seated at the table. Ser Jaime Lannister, the captain of the Red Lances. Ser Lyn Corbray, the king’s own second, and a dozen men of Westeros and Essos besides.  
  
“We’ve not the men to face them, Your Grace,” Ser Lyn said. “I would council we make north for Lord Stark’s own muster, and return with greater strength.”  
  
“Holing up in our lands loses us this war,” Ser Jaime said, smile sharp as he eyed the valeman. “We’ve word Lys is moving as well, Corbray. Should we flee until they knock at the gates of Myr?”  
  
Richard made himself very quiet. The enmity between these two was well known, said to be brought by a trial by combat that Ser Jaime had lost in the early days of the Dragonhunt. If this was truth the squire knew not, but that the two knights despised each other was plain. It was rare council where barbs were not traded. The king had done naught to settle the matter, for he found the sharp wit employed to be amusing. The Horpe knew he liked the Lannister better, but the sight of a lion wroth even more than that.  
  
“I imagine we shall make brave corpses indeed, should we give battle with our men alone,” Ser Lyn said. “Are you so eager for glorious end, Kingslayer?”  
  
Richard frowned. Corbray spoke the title as insult, yet it was anything but. Ser Jaime’s famous match under the walls of Laren had been as knightly a victory a man could ask for.  
  
“Peace,” the king laughed, and offered his cup for the squire to fill.  
  
It was his third of the evening, and would not be his last.  
  
“We cannot leave the bloody Tyroshi free hand, Corbray,” King Robert said. “I’ll not have Ned and the Blackfish fight the entire might of the Disputed Lands while we flee.”  
  
Ser Bryce Caron bowed before speaking, but a few years older than Richard yet already commander of an entire company.  
  
“My king, the men of Tobronos are not yet quelled,” he said. “They may give hand to the Tyroshi when they come.”  
  
“Ser Jaime?” the king said.  
  
The blond knight shrugged carelessly.  
  
“Let us give battle elsewhere, then,” he said.  
  
The king mulled over his cup, then set it down.  
  
“They come from Vakar,” he said. “Middle of the place, assembled as a single host. Their captain wagers it all on a battle here. I would not give him his desire.”  
  
“I am certain Lord Stark will be pleased of your wisdom, Your Grace,” Ser Lyn drawled, a glint of mockery in his eyes as he faced the Lannister.  
  
“We’re not retreating, Corbray,” the king laughed. “I will not dance to their tune. That host will not be marching against Myr, for it will be chasing us.”  
  
Ser Jaime grasped the king’s intent first, to his honour.  
  
“You’ll have us following the coast,” the Lannister said. “Then to delve into their heartlands. The princes will take fear and recall their man if their fields are aflame.”  
  
“Saddle up, my lords,” Robert Baratheon grinned, sharp as a blade. “I want the smoke to be seen far as Volantis.”


	62. War of Princes III

**Tychesso Phassanar**  
  
There’d been blood spilled over the matter of who would hold command of the fleet of Lys in this war, and Magister Tychesso had played the game with defter hand than his rivals. The Conclave officially frowned upon infighting when the barbarians were at the gate, of course, but the ways of Lys were not so easily abandoned. In deference to the needs of the era Tychesso had refrained from having his rivals killed, merely having a handful of prized slaves smothered with an exquisite silk pillow, and the elegance of it had seen him the talk of the city for months. They called it the Gentle Death, now. Many of his fellow Scales had offered toast after his appointment was made official, though of course the Spicers had been displeased. It was unfortunate that his own party did not hold greatest saw in the Conclave, but the Spicers had been too high-handed of late. It had turned lesser blocs against them, and his allies were spending fortunes trying to cement this fresh change of fortunes.  
  
It could not be denied that this battle was not of his party’s making. The Spicers had been howling for Salladhor Saan’s blood for months now, furious at his wanton ‘tolls’ and open piracy. The interruption of trade with Braavos had been great loss for all. The Titan’s get were lesser breed, of course, but a clever man could earn a fortune in their port with the right trades. The Sealord thought likewise, and the Conclave’s envoys had found a willing ear in Ferrego Antaryon. None of the Free Cities stood to gain by the continuation of the chaos brought the foreign savages, and to allow them to keep their conquests was unthinkable. The Sealord had made it known he would look ill upon Lys seizing lands north of Myr itself, but this was acceptable compromise. A single city of Westerosi could serve as border between the Lyseni empire and Pentos brought to heel. As for the Tyroshi princes, they were but a small matter.  
  
The Dragonhunt would wound that farce of a realm deeply, and the remains could be brought into the fold with light touch. As long as Lys ruled the seas it would grow ever wealthier, will those magisters of farms and orchards ruined themselves paying their host. Offers and promises would be made to the right men, and like a young girl opening her legs the cities would welcome the Conclave’s embrace. Ah, but what a time was this to be alive. The Triarchy was to be reborn under the rightful rule of Lys, Valyria’s worthiest daughter finally standing equal to Braavos and Volantis. That Salladhor Saan would struggle against this destiny was sad affair, Tychesso thought. The charming rogue had tasted of glory and grown drunk of this sweet wine, thinking himself match for the greatest of the Free Cities. The magister would concede, at least, that the pirate’s cunning had not dulled. Saan’s fleet had set sail before Lys’ own.  
  
Watching this assembly of pirates and sellsails through a gilded Myrish eye, the admiral smiled. Two hundred ships at the most, as had been reported. Though Saan had many more captain sworn to his banner, it had justly been expected that many would balk at warring against the fleet of Lys. The three hundred hundred odd war galleys and carracks he commanded would find victory today. The sky was cloudless and the sea smooth, not a storm in sight. Tychesso pondered the matter, musing that ‘Battle of the Blue Skies’ might be fitting name for his victory. Perhaps the ‘Humbling of the Prince’? Salladhor did style himself Prince of the Narrow Sea, though he was no more that than the corsairs of the Basilisk Isles were kings. There was sad lack of natural mark to provide a memorable name where this battle would be waged. Far off the coast of the Disputed Lands, more than a day’s sailing away from the Stepstones, there was naught but sky and sea.  
  
Tychesso remained on the deck of great galley as the hours passed and ships met in battle, dining lightly of superbly sauced lobster and fresh sugar-coated apples from the Disputed Lands. He sent orders on occasion, though in truth it was hardly necessary. The magister was not unacquainted with battles over the waves, having occasionally dabbled with the other side of the coin that was Lyseni trading, but his captains knew their duties and Saan’s fleet proved lackluster indeed. The cream of his captains must have perished in the battle against the Tyroshi fleet, when he had still been ally of Lys. Tychesso’s own were the dragons that had crushed the fleets of Myr and Tyrosh both, unrivaled by any other force at sea. The entire affair was done with by nightfall, a thorough victory that would see Tychesso’s name among the greatest admirals borne of Lys.  
  
He entertained the most distinguished of his captains that night on his galley, throwing as grand a banquet as could be thrown this far from peerless Lys. It was the morning after that an odd clarity found him with dawn’s light, the haze of wine leaving his mind. Many captains he had spoken with and their boasts he’d entertained of the way Saan’s pirates had so easily broken to Lyseni might. Mood turning dark, he sent for more precise numbers. His own fleet had seen a mere twenty lesser galleys sink. This, Tychesso knew, was not the aftermath of a hard fought battle. It had been too perfect a victory. How many ships had Saan lost? His captains were liars one and all, each boasting of half a dozen ships sunk, but when the magister sailed the waters where the fleets had clashed the driftwood was nigh absent. He had, the admiral grasped with cold understanding, been played a fool. Salladhor Saan had not meant to defeat them here.  
  
He had meant to delay them, and he had.  
  
  
 **Aeron Greyjoy**  
  
Aeron would have preferred to sail with the prince’s fleet, to spill blood where Saan could see it and win his esteem, but longships were best used for raiding. His fool of a brother had spoken of raising an Iron Fleet of larger ships once, great longships that would have scorpions and other engines of war on their decks, but like the rest of Balon’s promises it had sunk to the bottom of the Sunset Sea. It was bitter quip to think that Aeron Greyjoy was now closest to a king the ironborn could muster. After Stannis Hardhand broke the spine of the Iron Isles over his knee and gave its lordships over to greenlanders, the stubborn last gasps of the reavers had sailed for sunnier shores. Rumour had it that ironmen were scattered as far as Volantis, but Aeron’s name had brought captains to the Stepstones. The name Greyjoy was still as loved as it was hated, the remembrance of Balon’s Folly muddied by that glorious year when ironborn ruled the Sunset Sea.  
  
Aeron had nineteen captains under him now, high enough a number the Prince of the Narrow Sea gave him seat in council. No favour, this. Saan ever encouraged his men to squabble, and the disputed on Bloodstone were always settled with steel in hand. The Greyjoy knew the Lyseni turned a blind eye to it to ensure no captain would ever grow strong enough to challenge him for his crown, seeking his princely favour instead. He liked it not, but had cut a few men down himself. If he had not the prince would have thought him too ambitious, and Aeron would not see the last of his kin murdered for his pride. Besides, he had much to learn still. These men were not reavers, did not fight as his people had. That Aeron was quaffing a drink in a Tyroshi wineskin instead of standing on a deck was proof enough of this. The moon rose high before the Greyjoy rose to his feet, and in the dark returned to his longship.  
  
The Lyseni had paid no mind to his  _Iron Due_  after robbing him with those absurd docking fees. To them he was but another ironborn exile fleeing Baratheon wrath, haggard men in rags that lingered in the city for a few days before sailing east.  _From the wolves of the sea to her vagrants,_  he thought darkly. He found his nephew sleeping among rigging when he came aboard, but his niece awake and awaiting. Asha’s dark eyes had lost all their laughter and tenderness since they had fled the Isles, save when she mothered her brother.  
  
“Looking for these, nuncle?” she said.  
  
In her hands were long thick rope and a grapple. One of the dozen he had hidden away from the Lyseni, lest they suspect his intent. It sat ill with Aeron to have his niece and nephew in Tyrosh, yet what else could he do? Leaving them in the Stepstones would have been foolish, for one of the other captains would have stolen them away the moment his ship was no longer in sight of the shore.  
  
“Go back to sleep, girl,” he said. “This is no business of women or children.”  
  
“I am both,” Asha Greyjoy said stubbornly, “but ironborn first. Take me with you.”  
  
He cuffed her, and not gently. Proud as he was Greyjoy blood had borne true, he would not have backtalk from children.  
  
“You get to speak in my ship when you can wield a blade and rig a sail,” he said. “You’ll shut your bloody mouth until then.”  
  
She did not flinch, her eyes did not water.  _Ten years old_ , he thought,  _and there is more iron in that girl than half my men_. He raised his hand to cuff her again before she gave over the rope. The girl bit her lip.  
  
“Do not die, nuncle,” she whispered.  
  
Aeron knelt by her, gently taking her swelling cheek in hand.  
  
“I did not survive the fall of the Isles to die in this shithole, niece,” he said. “Worry not for me. Later there will be fire and steel, Asha. You must stay hidden with your brother.”  
  
She nodded and clasped him tight.  
  
“What is dead may never die,” she said.  
  
Aeron rose but did not reply. He no longer did, whenever the words were spoken to him.  _We died for you Balon, but we have not risen. Strength was spent, hardness broken. You broke our people, but I swear on your cursed shade I will not let your folly be the end of us._  His handpicked men went with him, ghosting through the streets under cover of darkness. The Greyjoy had climbed the cliffs of Pyke, once upon a time, for bets and boasts. Now he climbed the side of the Bleeding Tower in utter silence. They were few, but hardened killers and the few guards were tired or drunk. They moved from room to room, slitting throats before alarm could be raised. All over Tyrosh ironborn would be doing the same, silencing guards and harbormen. Aeron Greyjoy stood at the top of the Bleeding Tower, before an hour was past, and looked down upon the waters below. He could already make out the first ships.  
  
Within the hour, he thought, the Windblown would be in the city.


	63. War of Princes IV

**Jaime Lannister**  
  
The fire spread swiftly, though not swiftly enough he did not hear the crone sobbing. Spurring his horse away, Jaime did not glance back at the smallfolk whose home he’d just put to the torch. He’d had pangs of guilt when he’d done the same in the first four villages, but now he felt nothing at all at the sight of tear-streaked faces and wailing women. The Red Lances had done the work with cold method, trampling the few young fools who thought a shitheap was worth dying for before herding the rest of the folk away. Smoke began to rise even as he rode away, leaving behind a dozen thatched houses aflame and broken cattle fences. A handful of his riders were already driving the sheep west, where Robert would be making camp come nightfall. He passed by two heavyset freedmen with mauls hammering away at the well, burying the water in dirt and shit so that none would have use of it after they rode away.  
  
Steady sorts, these two. Better with sword than lance and with more muscle than brains to them, but they were not the kind of men that flinched away from bared steel. Like most his riders he’d made certain to blood them in raids south during the siege of Tobronos and had yet to find them wanting. The knights the Blackfish sent him these days had never seen the Seven Kingdoms but Jaime fancied quite a few of them would have made names for themselves if they’d entered melees and jousts. Ser Addam emerged from a curtain of smoke and led his mount at the Lannister’s side, soot staining his plate, and spat to the side.  
  
“Zaqhar’s speaking with the peasants,” the Marbrand said. “They’ll be running south to Vakar if they’ve any sense.”  
  
Ser Zaqhar, a Ghiscari freedman with a facility for the local tongues, had never held vigil nor sworn oaths and so it was common among Westerosi to withhold the title when speaking of him or any of his like. Jaime was not fond of the practice, but it could not be denied those men were not proper anointed knights. Half of them kept to Eddard’s bloody trees over the Seven, though the Old Gods they spoke of had little to do with the gods of the North as the Lannister knew them. There would be need, the blond man thought, for title to give these knights of the East. One that did not slight Westerosi by being afforded.  _Let Robert mull over it_ , he thought.  _It is no duty of mine._  
  
“We ride west, after the business is done,” the Lannister said. “We’re too close to the city and have been for too long. I do not want another clash with Ninefingers’ horse.”  
  
“The horse I fear not, my lord,” Ser Addam said. “It is the ragged horde following behind that pursues like a pack of baying hounds.”  
  
The westerman was not untrue in his words, for the two skirmishes the Tyroshi had forced upon the Red Lances had both been victories for the Dragonhunt. Yet men had been slain in both, Jaime knew, and where Hugin Ninefingers could send for more horses and riders the Red Lances could not. He’d misliked thinning out his riders, for they were a blade sharpest when kept together, but the Robert’s eye had been keen in giving the order.  _As it only ever is with war or fair women_ , the Lannister thought. As the Dragonhunt’s horse spread into lesser companies and torched the countryside of the Two Princes, Ninefingers had been forced to divide his host as well or risk all of it turning to ash. The Tyroshi horse Jaime had expected to follow them close and prepared for it with a screen of outriders, but those the soldiers his men called Rags had been unbidden guests. Though poorly armed they marched like madmen and fought with hard desperation, throwing themselves at mounted men like they believed death would spare them. The Lannister had given orders to avoid their roving packs, for he could not afford to trade riders for Hugin Ninefinger’s beggar foot.  
  
“A sennight, I would think,” Jaime said. “Before they are scattered enough we can give battle without numbers dooming us.”  
  
“And I am glad of it, my lord,” Ser Addam said. “I will not miss the work. It is not knightly in the slightest.”  
  
 _Neither was King’s Landing_ , Jaime thought.  _Yet there went the city, Princess Elia and her children too._  He did not speak the words, for it would have been unjust to speak of the Marbrand in the same breath as animals like Clegane and Lorch.  _But those animals had a leash, and it is no mystery who held it._  The heir to the Rock had seen dark things, since he’d crossed the sea, but he had seen them punished as well. He was not certain whether he was glad or wroth the same did not hold true in the Seven Kingdoms. Jaime had sworn no oath to his kin, not like the pretty words he’d spoken when knighted, but blood was oath in a man’s veins and deeper than anything anointed.  
  
“They had thinned the fields already,” the Lannister said. “We have frightened free men but few slaves, save those that follow the king.”  
  
“I have heard,” Ser Addam said carefully, “that sending the smallfolk to the cities was a notion of King Robert’s.”  
  
It had not been. Jaime had been the one to speak the words, for he remembered lessons in his father’s solar still.  _Smallfolk are as rats in a cellar when you are besieged_ , his lordly father had once told him.  _Do not allow them behind your walls._  Vakar and Berosh would swell with hungry mouths, and become stone around the neck of the Two Princes. If fed, they would burn through granaries already dwindled by feeding Ninefinger’s host. If left to starve, the refugees would riot. No matter the decision of the princes, there would be no reinforcements coming from them to bolster Captain Hugin. Not with so many desperate souls huddled in their streets.  
  
“It was not,” the Lannister finally said. “Gather the men, Ser Addam. We’ve work yet.”  
  
\--  
  
 **Haradhor Flaeraan**  
  
It had been a high honour to be named supreme commander of the great host of Lys, men told Magister Haradhor Flaeraan. This they told him often and loudly still, ignoring the dark circles around his eyes no amount of powder could hide. Sixty thousand soldiers had been given into his charge, mayhaps the greatest host Essos had seen march since the heyday of Valyria. Haradhor was no craven, but the weight of that truth threatened to snap him when he let himself linger on the thought. The eyes of the entire world were on him, from the Sunset Kingdoms to Slavers’ Bay. Anything less than utter victory would disgrace him and the Spicers he belonged to as well, for his allies had clawed and schemed furiously to see him granted this position by the Conclave. A man not born to be magister might have believed such a grand appointment meant his authority over the host was beyond question, but Haradhor’s blood had been men of import since the Doom and he was not prone to such naivetes.  
  
The Conclave had allowed him to name his own officers, wary of repeating the mistakes that had seen Myr undone, yet they had also sent representatives. Two magisters belonging to Scales, those grain-buggering upstarts, and another three from lesser parties whose allegiances were ever changeable. Haradhor was no fool, and so he’d emptied his own purse to keep these men buried in a haze of exotic hazes and pleasure girls. Far from the camps, where they might meddle and complicate what was already juggler’s work. The sellsword captains the Conclave had sent for in Slaver’s Bay were not as tightly bound to the cause as his fellows believed, and checking their influence with the men endless labour. The Ghiscari were skillful in matters of war, at least. The same could not be said of all his captains, though he’d removed any incompetents from positions of importance no matter whose kin they were. All the troubles that robbed Haradhor of sleep came from the very same source, the truth that was the toast of Lys.  
  
The Conclave had assembled the greatest host Essos had seen march since the heyday of Valyria.  
  
Sixty thousand men in need of feeding, of good steel and cots and pits to shit out of the camp where the disease would not scythe through the ranks where battle had yet to be given. The march to Laren had been a fortnight longer than he’d anticipated and it would grow worse the further north he took the men. The carts bearing grain and oil had yet to sprout wings, they could not wheel from Baelan to the host in a single night. It was waking nightmare to arrange the timely arrival of foodstuffs to all three columns. Discipline was lacking save with, by dark jest, with the Silver Companies. There were simply too many men to lead for all his officers to be trained in matters of war, even with the buttress that was the Ghiscari sellswords. Lys was queen of the waves, not the fields, and had waged war bought hosts. Haradhor had led soldiers before, in skirmishes against Tyroshi a decade past, but half his company leaders knew more of selling blades than using them.  
  
The Dragonhunt, he knew, would lack that weakness. He would need to bury them in a sea of corpses, sow death across a dozen battles until he’d ground away at their numbers and Westerosi officers. Without the foreigners holding the reins, all that was left was a mob of slaves a few years out of rightful bondage. The Unshackled were only a threat so long as the likes of King Stag and the Lord of Gallows led them. Haradhor drank the rest of his cup and ordered his servants to put away the wine. It was old habit to never allow himself more than two cups a day while on campaign, a custom that had seen him survive where better warriors lay drunk and dead. The two men he’d been waiting for did not try his patience, appearing before him with elegant bows.  
  
“Magister Flaeraan,” his nephew said soberly. “The terms have been refused.”  
  
“As expected,” Haradhor said. “A mistake, this. They will not be treated so gently after the storm.”  
  
The Lyseni had found Laren half-empty when he’d come in sight of the walls, slaves having fled north for the protection of High Captain Tully’s army. The man King Stag had named lord of the city had gone with them and the remainder of his soldiers with him, leaving behind only the most hardened of rebels. The magister had attempted terms regardless, more so that he would have shield when questioned by the representatives of the Conclave than out of any expectation of acceptance. He’d even been generous, offering a lottery of manumission for a tenth of the remaining slaves and guaranteed property to any man able to prove free birth. The mercy was but another tool to end this war with, for he now intended to brutally sack the city after the storm. When moving further north he would remind his foes of what had taken place in Laren, that generosity spurned ever had a price.  
  
“Magister Larazan,” he said, turning to the other man. “Have the envoys of the Conclave told that assault is to be given at noon.”  
  
The dark-skinned man, only half-Lyseni by birth, met his eyes silently.  
  
“It may be that my duties delay me in conveying this message,” Larazan said.  
  
“Such a thing would be unfortunate, but war makes demands of us all,” Haradhor said, smiling meaningfully.  
  
That should keep the drunks out of his hair until the walls had been breached, and without any fault put to his name. The magister dismissed the two, though his nephew attempted to linger, and sagged into his seat. Laren would fall today, he knew. He’d had the city surrounded and ladders prepared. The defenders did not have the steel or numbers to weather an assault on three sides. Haradhor grimaced, and decided it was unseemly of a commander to hope men died on the walls merely so he would not have to feed them.  
  
He did anyway.


	64. War of Princes V

**Gerion Lannister**  
  
Lord Admiral was quite a stirring title, Gerion thought, but the truth of the matter was less gilded. He was admiral of a mere dozen ships, which was achievement for a lesser house but paltry fare for a realm as large as the Kingdom of Myr. Yet the numbers would not grow, for there was no coin for hulls to be laid and crews hired. In a few years, Ned had said, when the coffers of the crown would not be in so dire a state. The Lannister would have liked some of the High Septon’s coin to see to the matter rather than raise more Unshackled, but it could not be denied the Dragonhunt had more dire need of soldiers than sailors. T _here is peril in waiting, Eddard_ , he thought.  _So long as Saan has the ships and we no means to check him, he can throttle the kingdom at will._  The saving grace of the matter was that Prince Salladhor would need grain and cattle to feed Tyrosh, and those would be within the reach of the Dragonhunt. Trusted allies were they all, with a knife ever pointed at the other’s belly.  
  
Gerion had set foot in Tyrosh once before, when he’d come of age and journeyed to all of the Free Cities, but the city he now saw was nothing like the one he remembered. Two sacks in two years had carved away every piece of fat here there was to be had, and where Lys had used restraint the Tattered Prince had no use for the word at all. The Windblown were ever a rapacious lot, and the marks of the sack they’d led would linger for decades. Every Lyseni in the city had been butchered by the night’s end, soldiers brutally looting their way through every manse and palace. Even now the streets belonged only to the dead and the soldiers, Tyroshi barring their doors and windows so they hungry eyes of the Pentoshi would glimpse nothing worth killing for. Prince Salladhor’s pirates had been late in joining the sack, and those that found nothing left to claim had turned their attentions to the people instead.  _You will have to rule these men_ , Saan, Gerion thought.  _This savagery will not be forgot._  
  
The two princes were holding court in the highest reaches in the city, having claimed the ancient Valyrian fortress that overlooked it. The fighting had been hardest there, the Lannister had been told, the Lyseni knowing they would not live through surrender. They’d broken eventually. There’d been too few of them to hold, no matter how strong the walls. The Lord Admiral of the Dragonhunt was announced with great ceremony, and welcomed a friend to the realms of the Prince of Andalos and the Prince of the Narrow Sea.  _The Dragonhunt bleeds_ , Gerion thought,  _for their titles to grow ever larger_. Prince Mylerio had bargained for two boons, when his armies were sought. Right to sack cities as he saw fit, should he hold the command, and for his rule over all of Andalos to be recognized by treaty by the crowns of Myr and Tyrosh. Tatters had joined the war for loot and blooding his men, Gerion understood. And when his veterans returned north, they would fly his banner from Ghoyan Drohe to the Braavosi Coastlands.  
  
With Norvos warring on the Rhoyne and Braavos finding Pentoshi allies holding its trade routes, he would find his ambitions uncontested.  _He sold his swords south for a kingdom in the north_ , Gerion thought. The Lannister was lauded for his tricks, but he stood humble before the likes Prince Mylerio. The old sellsword had only one trick, yet it had never failed. After audiences ended and Saan tired of granting titles to his captains, the great hall was emptied of all save for servants, two princes and an admiral without a proper fleet. There was a jest in there, the Lannister thought. Courtesies were observed, and only after wine was poured was the reason for his presence broached.  
  
“Word has spread of the fall of Laren,” Prince Salladhor said. “I offer you most sorrowful sympathies, Lord Admiral.”  
  
“The High Captain and Lord Stark agreed it could not be held,” Gerion said. “The Lyseni must be divided before they can be broken.”  
  
“Little comfort for all the crucified slaves, I would imagine,” Prince Mylerio smiled. “The Conclave does not shy away from harsh measures.”  
  
 _There is no end to the horrors this land has to offer_ , the Lannister thought. Every man, woman and child who’d held blade in the defense of the walls had been dragged out of the city and nailed to crosses. Some of them had still been alive, he’d been told. There would be answer given to this, in time. No mercy awaited the magisters of Lys, only branches and cold redress.  
  
“King Robert had led the host of the Two Princes by the nose,” the Lord Admiral said. “With Captain Hugin so distracted, the opportunity is ripe for you to strike.”  
  
He spoke nothing the two men did not already know.  _Yet the Windblown have not left the city._ This was betrayal, he suspected, though not in full. No, these two rogues knew better than to believe they would be spared if the Dragonhunt fell. They were only letting the skies darken over Myr to extract another few concessions.  
  
“Alas, it would be great risk for me to attempt a landing,” the Tattered Prince sighed. “So few warships do I have. What could I do should the fleet of Lys strike my brave lads at sea?”  
  
“Prince Salladhor’s captains were agreed to provide escort for a landing in Bluestone,” Gerion said. “Have our arrangements been dissolved?”  
  
The pirate affected reluctance before speaking.  
  
“I fear my hold on Tyrosh is feeble,” Saan said. “Manifold apologies, my friend, but I may lose the city should my ships sail away.”  
  
Gerion grit his teeth.  
  
“Surely,” he said, “there is way to quiet these worries.”  
  
“I bear King Robert a great love,” Prince Salladhor assured the Lannister. “And would not leave him so imperiled. Nothing could please me more than sail away, should I obtain the love of my people.”  
  
“And how may the Dragonhunt lend aid in this?” Gerion said.  
  
“Why, I believe their tenderness could be brought out by gifts of land in the Disputed Lands,” the pirate said.  
  
Borders had already been agreed on, ink put to parchment, but it had been mistake to think Saan would settle for less than a third of the Disputed Lands. Sellsails always hungered for more.  
  
“I am certain that can be arranged, within limits,” the Lannister said. “And you, Prince Mylerio? How may your no doubt deep worries be assuaged?”  
  
“A prince must be farsighted,” the Tattered Prince smiled. “And it would be lie to say it has not occurred to me that any men dying south cannot serve in the defense of my realm, should Norvos seek to deny my rights to the east.”  
  
“Treasured allies cannot be left to stand alone,” Gerion said, mayhaps more curtly than he should have.  
  
“All I would require is the promise of your king to come to my aid, should the bearded priests seek war,” Prince Mylerio assured.  
  
Robbery, the Lannister thought. That was all this was. He wanted to use the Dragonhunt as a dissuading bludgeon when expanding eastwards.  _He means to go further than Ghoyan Drohe. Ny Sar?_  It mattered not. The Windblown were needed and Saan’s fleet as well. Gerion buried his anger and struck the pact.


End file.
